Indomitus Bellum
by Mattwho81
Summary: When they are summoned to a mysterious meeting the Storm Heralds find themselves confronted by challenges they could never have anticipated. With danger coming from the most unexpected directions they will have to find a way to tell friend from foe. This story is a sequel to my previous story Ignis in Vacui
1. Chapter 1

**Storm Heralds Reading List**

**Book **_**1**__ Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, In Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Noctem Oritur._

**Book 2**_ Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Saeva Abyssi._

**Book 3**_ Captum Ante, Venenum Filios, Locum Ignotum, Domus Discordia._

**Book 4**_ Cincere Tempestas, Ignis in Vacui, Indomitus Bellum._

_*Authors note: the following story is set before the novel Dark Imperium: Plague Wars and Armour of Fate*_

_Extract from Imperial Crusades of the new age: Vol I_

_Following the final defeat of the Ebon Assembly the Indomitus Crusade could confidently declare that Terra was at last secure from the immediate threat of invasion. This victory had come at the end of a near decade of constant warfare that had consumed Segmentum Solar and while it did not mean that the fighting stopped, it did mark a turning point in the wider war._

_From the inception of the Crusade the Lord Commander had been lending his staggering genius to the restoration and improvement of the Imperium itself. Governments were reorganised at the planetary, interstellar and sector-wide levels, while industries and trade routes were restructured and military forces strengthened. He had also applied his breathtaking diplomatic skills to rebuilding strategic alliances and persuading rebellious worlds to submit. Countless authenticated accounts exist of mutinous governors repenting their deeds before the Primarch, their defiance wilting to nothing when tested against his sheer presence, superb oratory and incisive political skill. Indeed Historitors estimate that for every world the crusade reconquered through force, at least one other was brought back into the fold through Roboute Guilliman's words alone._

_Fighting still raged throughout Segmentum Solar but Guilliman was confident that the institutions he had established could expand upon his work, without his further presence. The Primarch now determined that the time had come to gather the battlegroups of Fleet Primus together and move them to support the other Crusade fleets, which were battling their way through the other Segmentums._

_This proved to be a most contentious issue, for many senior commanders violently disagreed as to the correct course. Lord Marshall Hellbrecht of the Black Templars, by far the largest contributors to the Crusade, proposed moving to Segmentum Obscurus and securing the Nachmund Gauntlet, allowing the Imperium to confront the horrors assailing Imperium Nihilus. They would also be able to re-establish contact with Fleet Secundus, of which nothing had been heard since they set forth on their own mission. However Lord Militant Xandar demanded the Crusade sail for Segmentum Pacificus, to assist Fleet Tertius in its efforts to liberate the besieged worlds surrounding Hydraphur. In contrast Captain Cato Sicarius, commander of the Primarch's Victrix Guard, argued for forging a fresh path into Segmentum Ultima, to end the Plague Wars assailing Ultramar. That the actions of Fleet Septimus was discussed is known but, as with all other matters pertaining to that mysterious force, the details of that discussion were classified beyond the remit of this record._

_So fierce were these arguments that some even proposed dividing Fleet Primus and absorbing its strength into the other fleets. Roboute Guilliman listened to all these proposals but then made his own choice. With irrefutable logic Guilliman explained that while all these endeavours were worthy, the cost in manpower and materials were beyond the depleted Imperium's current ability to support. Yes, brave souls were dying, but without the means to achieve victory the Imperium could not hope to survive for long. Only with the proper support could the Indomitus Crusade save the wider galaxy, thus the first priority must be to secure more resources for the Imperium, to rebuild the industries and logistics necessary to drive back the darkness assailing mankind._

_So it was that the Lord Commander ordered Fleet Primus to set course for Segmentum Tempestas, the least badly affected region of the galaxy and so the one with the most easily accessed resources. This would require the astonishing mass of the assembling battlegroups to first pass through the Saint Karyl Trail._

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 1**

Fire and smoke, that was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. Bright flames licking at toppled crates, spewing black smoke into the confined space of the hold. His autosenses filled his vision with a plethora of warnings, a blizzard of blinking icons making it hard to see. It took a moment of fierce concentration to activate the neural link to his armour and then he dismissed the majority of the icons, leaving only essential read-outs.

The first thing he did was to check his armour's integrity and he was pleased to find his Mark X plate was undamaged, it had sealed his external vents to shut out the smoke but the internal oxygen recycling system had cut in smoothly. His bio-signs were also stable, no significant injuries been taken while he was unconscious and he was fully functional. Lastly he checked the chronometers and was relieved to find that only a minute had passed since he had blacked out, not that meant much whilst in the warp. All seemed in order, except that he had no explanation for his blacking out, it was like there was a hole in his memory. One minute he had been supervising a gang of Adsecularis, collecting supplies from the hold, the next he had been laid out on the floor. It was puzzling in the extreme and he was determined to find an answer.

With that Primaris Lieutenant Henrique Smyth sat up, his armour purring smoothly to match his movements. Smyth turned his head to take in the scene and saw the hold was strewn with fallen crates, the weighty boxes randomly scattered everywhere. Flames arose as some of the more volatile contents ignited, thankfully this wasn't an armoury, where lethal munitions were stored but there were still enough unstable chemicals to make this place a dangerous environment.

Smyth spied his Mark II bolt rifle upon the floor and he stooped to pick it up, muttering a techna-Lingus chant to appease its spirit. As he did so he brushed against a crate and it shifted to reveal a boot. Smyth was curious and knocked the crate aside with one hand, revealing an Adsecularis prone on the deck. Smyth was conditioned for war, trained and hardened to resist anything, but the sight of the tech-thrall made his gore rise. The menial labourer was a cyborg like all Mechanicus workers, but one so lowly he was barely a step above a servitor. Yet the man was now bereft of his augmetics, all of them having been neatly excised from his body. They were laid out in a neat pile beside him, leaving the organic components to rot. To someone trained on Mars that was more harrowing than if they removed his biological organs in a ritualistic murder.

Smyth's head snapped up and he saw more bodies, each one ended in a different manner. Some had been smeared over the walls, others turned inside out or stretched from the high ceiling until their feet touched the floor. One had even been neatly sliced into wafer-thin segments and hung from the bare metal wall, like a medicae's diagram of the nervous system. There was no sign of any killer present, but Smyth wasn't expecting any, this was the unmistakable touch of the Warp. Smyth gripped his bolt rifle tighter and moved towards a secondary personnel hatch. He was about half-way there when he heard a groan and his autosenses detected movement. He hurriedly tossed aside a crate and beneath he found an Adsecularis, the menial battered and bruised but still alive. The labourer looked up with bleary eyes and said, "Controller?"

Smyth hastily grabbed the thrall and pulled him upright barking, "On your feet!"

The thrall wobbled as he stood but his implants steadied him and he looked up to ask, "Directive?"

"We're getting out of here," Smyth answered as he strode to the hatch, "Follow me."

"Compli…" the thrall began but then broke down in fits of coughing and said, "Why… why can't I… breathe?"

Smyth stepped up to the hatch and stowed his rifle as he said, "Oxygen deprivation, the fire is consuming the breathable air. You will die if we don't get out of here."

The thrall staggered to his side and between coughs asked, "What happened to the ship?"

Smyth was fiddling with the runepad, trying to open the door but answered, "No information available, we don't know."

The thrall doubled over and coughed furiously but Smyth barked, "Speak to me, tell me your name. Tell me the name of the man who is going to get out of here alive."

"X10-473-alpha-d," the thrall spat.

Smyth gave up on the dead controls and moved to grip the door itself, his digits tore into the metal and he snapped, "Stand ready X10, when I open this door the oxygen will rush in, the fire will spread quickly. You need to get through fast."

He didn't wait for a response but heaved mightily, physically wrenching the door open. Metal squealed as he sheered the locks from their mountings but he was a Primaris Marine and no mere door could resist his strength. With one heave he opened the hatch and clean air rushed in. Behind him the fires surged as the oxygen hit but before it could reach them X10 was squeezing under his arm and then Smyth dove forward, pulling the door shut behind him. The pair staggered out into the corridor beyond and Smyth's armour unlocked, letting external air within. Smyth took up his bolt rifle and swept the section but found nobody present, nobody living anyway, the area was bereft of crew. Like all imperial vessels, the walls were covered in pipes and mechanisms but these were broken and sparking, shattered beyond repair and Smyth flinched at the damage to the blessed devices. The Lieutenant tried his vox but got no response and since he had no indications which way to go he picked a direction at random and set off. X10 trailed in his wake and asked, "I don't understand, how could this happen?"

Smyth peered ahead and replied, "The last I knew the Omnissiah's Bounty was moving ahead of the main Crusade fleet, trying to reach our rendezvous. We were still days from Warp Translation but something must have surprised us."

"The Empyrean?" X10 asked with a fearful tone.

"Possibly," Smyth stated as he stepped over a dead body.

"Omnissiah preserve us," X10 muttered as he made the sign of the Cog.

Suddenly Smyth saw movement ahead and his rifle snapped up as something bulky emerged into his vision. His finger tightened on the trigger but at the last instant he relented as he recognised the familiar bulk of Mark X plate. From out of a side passage came a squad of Intercessors, led by the welcome sight of his good friend Sergeant Yones. The Sergeant's plate was almost identical to his own, clean lines painted with the proud colours of the Unnumbered Sons, the Primarch's personal army.

Smyth put up his rifle and called out, "Hail!"

Yones looked over then gestured his squad to guard the approaches as he called back, "Lieutenant, by the Red Sands are we glad to see you! We haven't seen anyone living for hours."

Smyth jogged over and inquired, "Hours? By my measure it's been minutes."

Yones responded, "A side effect of the emergency Translation, we've been sweeping the ship looking for survivors."

Smyth held up a hand and said, "Wait, start at the beginning, what have I missed?"

Yones sighed, "We were in the Warp and all seemed normal but then something inexplicable occurred. Captain Kieva ordered an emergency translation but it was rough going, the Omnissiah's Bounty was crippled in the jump, we're adrift in the void."

"At least we are in realspace," Smyth stated, "Why can't I reach anybody on the vox?"

Yones replied dismissively, "The mysteries of the Omnissiah are beyond my ken."

Suddenly the deck heaved beneath them and debris rained down from the broken ceiling. X10 cried fearfully, "Daemons have come for our souls!"

Furiously Smyth rebuked him, "Where is your logic? That was a spatial shift; the ship is in a gravity well."

"Gravity!" Yones started in shock, "Surely we can't be that close to a planet?!"

"No wonder the Translation was so rough," Smyth commented as the heaving got worse.

The whole ship began to shudder, an Astartes Strike Cruiser quivering like a new-born colt on wobbly legs. Everybody swayed with the movements but then a klaxon began to wail and a monotone voice blurted out of vox hailers, "Abandon ship, abandon ship, all hands abandon ship."

X10 sounded incredulous as he cried, "Error-shunt-abort, it can't be possible."

Yet Smyth had already sprung into a jog and called, "Don't stand there like a slipped cog, move it!"

Everybody leapt into motion, racing down the corridor and Yones shouted, "Where are we going?"

Smyth yelled back, "There's a secondary launch bay not too far away, we can make it if we hurry."

With immense strides the Lieutenant led the party down shaking corridors and through quivering hatches. With every step the tremors in the deck got worse and the ship began to keen loudly as bits of machinery fell from the ceiling. Smyth felt shorn fragments of metal pinging off his Ceramite pauldrons, like he was running through a hailstorm and the noise in his ears grew steadily higher in pitch.

Yones was leading his Intercessors one step behind but he spat, "That's no gravity shift, that's atmospheric drag."

"Grit in the Cogs, we're even deeper in the well than I realised," Smyth growled, "Faster everybody, we can still make it!"

Smyth redoubled his pace, hearing the wheeze of X10 labouring to keep up. He daren't slow though, for the Strike Cruiser was screaming in pain and its life was measured in mere minutes. He saw a familiar sign on the wall as he approached a junction and dove down a side passage, leading the party towards the launch bay. Yet just as they came around the turn there was an immense roar and the ship heaved like it was a nautical boat crashing through an ocean wave. The impact made debris cascade from the ceiling and piles of refuse slammed down, filling the junction with shattered bits of metal.

Smyth spun on his heel and leapt at the tangled metal, throwing wreckage aside with frantic haste. In moments he pulled Yones from the snarl of wreckage and the Sergeant wasted not a moment to join him in freeing the rest of the squad. They emerged one by one, their noble plate scratched to hell but not one of them had perished. Yet when Smyth found the body of the Adsecularis he was dismayed to find only a crushed and bleeding mass of sundered flesh: the Tech-Thrall was dead. Smyth grimaced in frustration, but there was nothing to be done so he abandoned X10's body and left him behind.

Together the squad raced down the passages, taking turns from memory alone. Smyth was at the front but he grew concerned as the ships' agony became excruciating and he knew the Omnissiah Bounty was in its last death throes. Just as he thought they were done for they burst into the launch bay to spy the blessed sight of an Overlord Gunship, its assault ramps open to admit a squad of Aggressors.

Smyth waved his party on, shouting, "Get inside now!"

The Primaris hurled themselves up the ramp as the pilot called, "Anymore coming?"

Smyth shook his head saying, "The others should have headed for the main bay or the drop-pods, we're the last."

The ramps began to whine closed behind them and Smyth threw himself into a grav-harness, muttering Mechanicus litanies all the while. The Overlord shuddered as it lifted off the deck and Smyth's head hit the sides as it spun on its axis and drove forward on maximum thrust, then the gunship cleared the bay and dove out into the turbulent air. Smyth's world became a nightmare kaleidoscope of spin and bone-rattling forces, accompanied by the wails of the damned as turbulence clawed at the gunship. Yet the Overlord was an advanced design, the finest product of Mars and it proved true as it broke away from the flaming mass of the dying Strike Cruiser.

After a minute the rattling died down and Yones breathed out, "That was too close."

"We escaped," Smyth replied, "We can only trust the others made it out too."

"No ship, no Astropaths, no idea where we are," Yones muttered, "What are we to do?"

Smyth leaned back in his grav-harness and stated levelly, "We link up with our forces and find a way to survive, then we figure out what the hell just happened."


	2. Chapter 2

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 2**

Against the brilliant glare of a star a dark silhouette moved, a shadow set free to roam the depths of space. It was a blot upon the blinding light of the local star, a dark blob that grew ever larger and more defined. The source of this shadow was a massive vessel of plasteel and adamantium, a moving mountain of armour, gun batteries, launch bays and flaring drives: an Astartes capital ship and her name was Thunderchild.

The Thunderchild was a most unusual design in the hidebound Imperium, neither Strike Cruiser nor Battlebarge, but she was deadly nonetheless. Her flanks bristled with guns and her spine bore weighty Bombardment Cannons while beneath her prow hung a wide launch bay. She was a predator, pure and simple, and she bore down on her target with inexorable momentum. That target was the dull orb of a planet, covered in brown continents and small salty seas and a wispy atmosphere. It was altogether uninspiring, a hard-scrabble world by any measure, where life would be brutal and short.

On the Thunderchild's bridge her Captain looked out of the Oculus viewportal and called, "Bring her into orbit slowly, be gentle with your handling in the turns." He was standing upon the command dais, some four feet off the deck, from where he could survey the crew. The Captain was clad in blue armour, boasting grey pauldrons and the spiral in a starburst icon of the Storm Heralds Chapter. He bore a red cloak and golden rank chains but his face was less decorous, marred with a burning red augmetic eye in the right socket and twin diagonal scars upon his cheeks. He was Toran, Captain of the Third Company and bearer of the legendary relic blade, the Sword of Thiel.

There was a discrete cough from beside him and Toran beheld Chaplain Furion towering over him. Furion was a giant Space Marine, as tall as a Primaris though he was conventional in every other way. His black plate was a venerable Mark III design, the only plate able to fit his frame and he bore the shining Crozius 'Storm-Heart' at his hip. Furion's helm was off, revealing solemn and patriarchal features but with a hint of fierce anger in his eye. Furion looked at Toran and commented, "Taking it easy?"

Toran breathed out and said, "I don't want to push the ship too hard, this is her first mission since the refit." It was true, the Thunderchild had taken grievous wounds fighting in the Dark Imperium and had only recently come out of a five-year refit.

From Toran's other side came a snort and the voice of Apothecary Memnos uttering, "You're being paranoid, we have already traversed the Warp to reach this system. Nothing on this world could possibly match those tides."

Toran glanced at Memnos, the weathered healer of Third Company. He was a grizzled old Marine but his face bore terrible woes, stemming from the grievous sins he had committed. A decade earlier the Apothecary order had been disgraced by Heretical experimentations during the Storm Heralds disgraceful civil war and Memnos still bore the Chains of Shame upon his gauntlets and vambraces. Yet the Apothecary was never afraid to speak his mind, the scorn of another could never match the contempt he held himself in.

Toran drew in a breath and said, "Still the serfs are anxious, best not to spook them."

Furion agreed, "This little exercise just the thing to settle in the ship's spirit and excise past ghosts."

From the Ordnance Pulpit came a new voice, that of the Company Champion Novak. His armour was gloriously bedecked in gold ablative plates and he bore a shining sword at his hip and a combat shield with a broken Rosarius set upon it, trophies of his previous campaigns. Novak was a prodigy with a blade and his burnt and scarred face was a testament to the battles he had won, but he was also impudent and he proclaimed, "Well for one I am glad, a Strike Cruiser just isn't the same."

Brother Persion, the expert communication specialist and signal cracker, called up from the Sensorium, "He's not wrong, the Million Worlds is a fine ship but the Thunderchild has been sorely missed."

Toran agreed with them, while the ship had been in refit Third Company had been reduced to operating from a Strike Cruiser, one of the Storm Herald's sizeable fleet. She had proved fast and true, carrying them between wars with steadfast dignity, but the Thunderchild was widely regarded as a lucky ship, not something to be dismissed among superstitious void-farers. Toran drew in a breath and said, "She is eager for the fray and handling smoothly, but I want to make sure everything is perfect before we risk engaging in combat."

Amid the gunnery pews Brother Jediah, the bloodthirsty savage muttered, "Not bloody likely, there's no one here to fight."

Toran returned his gaze to the Oculus and mused, "Yes, why is nobody returning our hails? The system defence force must have seen our slingshot manoeuvre around the star."

Furion concurred and ordered, "Run an auspex sweep of the planet, find us someone to talk to."

Toran rubbed his chin as gaggles of serf crew hastened to obey and pondered aloud, "We need to make contact and discover if the emissary has arrived yet, with the vagaries of the Warp we may have arrived early. What else do we know about this planet?"

From the Enginarium pit Librarian Arvael looked up and answered, "Not much, our records of this planet are scant. Inerus is a Mining world that lies in Segmentum Solar, just beyond the Saint Karyl Trail warp route. It produces large quantities of uninteresting ores, biodiversity is minimal and the population is barely ten million. There have been no important battles to note and no outstanding marks in history."

Toran heard the words and accepted them even as he suppressed a flinch. Arvael was a talented Telekine and a proven warrior, but he was still a Psyker and so would never be wholly trusted, nothing could ever bridge that gap. Plus there was the fact that the Librarian order had sat out the Storm Herald's civil war in meditation, a fact many Initiates hadn't forgiven them for.

Jediah muttered loudly, "We're in the middle of nowhere."

Yet Novak mirthfully corrected him, "The arse end of nowhere!"

Toran gazed out at the stars and sighed, "I've never travelled so far from our Homeworld, it's so strange."

Jediah snorted, "Doesn't look any different to the view from Lujan II."

Sternly Furion interjected, "Our orders were clear, the Storm Heralds were commanded by Imperial writ to dispatch an envoy to meet with an emissary of Terra and await further orders."

"So why pick us?" Novak sighed, "Why not another Company?"

Memnos snorted, "Because Captain Hakulo of Fourth Company is hardly a fit envoy, he'd probably start a war, and Captain Cyvo of the Second is too junior to speak the Chapter. Chapter Master Phalros entrusted us with this duty and we shall not fail him."

Novak looked thoughtful and said, "Still, I wonder why we had to come at all, who wants to talk to us?"

Furion turned to look at the Captain and remarked, "You didn't tell them?"

Novak frowned his scarred forehead and said, "Tell us what?"

Toran grinned slightly and said, "I may have left out one small detail, the message came via Terra but the order originated from the Indomitus Crusade… signed by the hand of the Lord Commander Imperial."

Silence fell, even the serfs going quiet and then Novak cried, "The Primarch! This order came from the Primarch!" Toran enjoyed his look of amazement; Novak wasn't the only one who could make an occasional jest. Still it was a source of wonder, the Storm Heralds had been aware of Roboute Guilliman's return for a decade but had no contact with him. No orders had been issued to them and their own missives proffering aid and support had gone unanswered.

The fact that Guilliman had at last contacted them was electrifying in a way Toran had never experienced before. Even the revered Dreadnought Ajax, the oldest of the Storm Heralds, had awoken from his slumber at the call, Toran had vowed to awaken Ajax at the first hint of contact and the Contemptor had almost toppled the great Forge doors in his eagerness to be deployed. He wasn't the only one; Terminators of the leaderless First Company had come too. Veteran Sergeant Orath had simply turned up at the deployment and stated he was coming with Third Company, typical of him, none were fiercer in war but a leader of men he was not.

The awe was writ large on every face, for Space Marines were built to follow their mythical forebears, their gene-seed quivered at the very thought and everybody looked energised… Well all save one. At the Sensorium Persion scowled at a display and called, "Captain, auspex sweep is complete but we're not finding anything, I mean that literally. There are no signs of life on this world."

That pronouncement shattered the good mood and Toran frowned as he replied, "That can't be right, there are ten million people inhabiting Inerus. There should be a bevvy of activity on the surface."

Persion shook his head and explained, "I've run the scans three times, there are no vox signals, no emissions from refining or movement around industrial hubs. Save for a few idling energy sources the planet seems deserted."

Furion interjected, "Ten million people don't just disappear, where are they?"

Suddenly Arvael spoke up, "I sense a shroud of morbidity laid upon this world and I hear the tolling of funeral bells. Death has touched this place and the scent of the grave hangs over it like a vulture."

Shudders ran through the crowds of bridge serfs at the psychic pronouncement, more than a few superstitiously spitting on the deck to fend off the evil eye of Horus. Toran was wary of any display of Warp ability but had learned to put that aside and he asked, "Can you sense anyone alive?"

Arvael sadly shook his head and answered, "No minds sparkle below."

At that point Persion spoke up, "There is nothing in orbit either, records show there should be an orbital dock but it's nowhere to be found and… oh wait, this is strange."

"Persion?" inquired Toran.

Persion peered at a read-out and elaborated, "We are detecting a large impact crater on the surface, very large and it's brimming with hard radiation. We couldn't see it before because of the curvature of the planet but it looks like something big fell out of orbit."

"The orbital dock?" Memnos inquired.

"Unknown," Persion answered.

Toran stepped back and whispered to Furion, "I suspect an attack occurred here, by unknown assailants. They knocked the dock out of orbit and depopulated the planet."

Furion didn't look convinced as he muttered, "There are a lot of assumptions in that statement. We have no way of knowing who did this or why. There's also the matter of the emissary, are they late or did they arrive early and get caught up in whatever happened?"

Toran mused, "Well we won't find any answers from high orbit, we need to survey the planet itself."

Furion nodded and said, "Let me lead a scouting party."

"No," Toran uttered, "I want a reconnaissance in force, the whole Company shall go."

"Risky," Furion said, "The Thunderchild will be left with a serf crew, anything could happen up here."

"Anything could happen down there," Toran argued, "Whatever did this depopulated a world, I don't want to risk dividing our forces."

"It's your decision," Furion acceded, "I'd be on my guard though."

Toran turned back to the bridge and called, "Persion find the biggest urban centre, it's the most likely location to find answers. Serfs, you are to hold the Thunderchild in high orbit and keep the shields up at all times, obey the shipmaster in our absence. In the meantime ready Third Company for deployment, all squads including Honourable Ajax and Terminator squad Orath. Anything could be lurking down there, so we are going in armed for war."

Novak muttered, "Let us trust there will be something to kill or Ajax will be crankier than usual."

Toran ignored him but turned to Arvael and said, "Librarian, any premonitions as to what awaits us?"

Arvael replied candidly, "I'm a seer, not a prophet; I see only what is not what will be."

Toran accepted this and declared, "A mystery then, one we shall unravel. Be on alert Brothers, there's no telling what we shall find once we set foot upon the ground."


	3. Chapter 3

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 3**

From the gloomy sky fell an arrowhead of cruciform shapes, each one boasting thick armour and many guns. They plummeted through the atmosphere with the heat of re-entry streaming from their hulls, causing eddies of turbulence to dance in their wake. The craft looked about as aerodynamic as a brick but then humanity had never been overly concerned with aesthetics, these craft were built for war and ideas of beauty could go hang. They were Thunderhawk Transporters and they descended upon Inerus with the bulky forms of Rhinos and Predators gripped in their claws.

The flight of transports flew over a barren and dusty land, with lazy hills that slowly rose into unimpressive mountains. Everything on this planet seemed weary, a madam past her prime whose finery had tarnished and attire had long since frayed to rags. Even the air seemed tired, thin and wispy, barely stirring the dust when it could be bothered to blow.

The Transports flew straight and level until they reach an urban sprawl, a ramshackle collection of low buildings surrounding a knot of mining facilities and refineries. It was altogether mediocre, nothing but two-room dwellings and meagre shops. In fact the largest thing to be seen was an immense slag-heap outside the city, where the refuse of mining was dumped and forgotten. The Thunderhawks set down several miles from the edge of the city and their claws opened to drop the vehicles to the dusty ground. From one strode a towering war machine on two legs, with an assault cannon for one arm and huge energised fist for another. Simultaneously the ramps dropped and squads of Initiates and Scout-Novices barrelled out, weapons held ready as they created a secure perimeter. The Storm Heralds were taking no chances and had brought enough firepower to level this city to ash.

In moments the Company was deployed and they hastily began to prepare the vehicles for action and checking their supplies had not been disturbed in transit. They had practised this action to perfection and would be ready to move out in mere minutes. As they did this the Transporters lifted on vectored thrust, kicking up flurries of dust as they began the long haul back to orbit. The blue-clad Space Marines paid them no mind, focussing upon their duties, but among their number there was one who watched them depart. He was attired in esoteric plate, his Mark IV armour festooned with eldritch markings and his shoulder bore a depiction of a Daemon's head, bisected by a falling sword. His name was Arvael and he was a Librarian-Psyker.

Arvael gazed upwards as he meticulously scanned the surroundings in ways no mundane soul could comprehend, his Psyker mutation allowing him to draw extradimensional Warp energy into his mind. Arvael judged local gravity to be 0.78G, low but Astartes could easily compensate for that. The atmosphere was thin, again no major obstacle to them. What was more concerning was the thick gloom, a low hanging pall that shrouded this world in twilight. A recent phenomenon in his opinion, probably radioactive dust kicked into the upper atmosphere by the crash of whatever made the huge crater. This planet would soon be plunged into a nuclear winter, not that there was anyone left to care.

Arvael was primarily a Telekinetic, with some basic skill as a Telepath and a meagre competence as a Pyrokine. The disciplines of Biomancy and Divination eluded him entirely. Yet he could still sense the absence of living minds, this world was empty and hollow and he had no idea why. His thoughts were interrupted by the shout of Novak who called, "Arvael, don't just stand there looking cryptic, mount up!

The Librarian looked about and saw the Third had embarked in their vehicles. Captain Toran had climbed into the Razorback Charael's Justice, its twin heavy bolters sweeping left and right as it searched for threats. With him were his Command Squad, Chaplain Furion and Apothecary Memnos, six souls in a vehicle that could carry only six. Novak's face was hidden behind his helm but his mirth was clear as he called from the hatch, "Sorry but that's what you get for dawdling, you'll have to grab another."

The words were meant in jest but Arvael sensed the underlying tension, he was a Psyker and so would never be accepted as an equal. Arvael had long since accepted his lot; a Psyker was a fool to expect anything else and instead turned to the Land Raider 'Pride of Lujan'. He strode over and saw Terminator Sergeant Orath within, his squad's mighty plate filling the interior. Arvael bowed slightly and said, "I shall accompany you."

Orath's helm glared ferociously yet he uttered, "Do as you want but be quick about it."

Arvael accepted the words and climbed up the side, since the interior was already filled to capacity by the Terminators. He nodded to the driver and then dropped feet first into a hatch, keeping his torso free. Barely had his boots touched down when the Company set off, roaring across the dusty plain in a column of tracked machines, the bulk of Honourable Ajax striding alongside. Rhino roof hatches opened and the Initiates peered out, sweeping the area with their bolters as the convoy drove along.

As the wind caressed his helm Arvael affectionately touched a kill tally on the Land Raider's roof that mirrored the icon on his shoulder and he was reminded of the times he had shared with this noble steed in his youth. So young and naive he had been, Arvael thought, so innocent and trusting. The Librarius had excised that from him, searing the concepts of friendship and trust from his soul. A Librarian stood outside the Brotherhoods of Company and squad, for he must serve as judge, jury and executioner over his kin. A duty Arvael had been required to perform himself, purging not only the actively corrupted but also the weak-willed from the Chapter, a couple of whom had been close friends.

As the Pride of Lujan roared over the landscape Arvael contemplated Third Company. For years he had fought alongside them, crushing rebellions, ousting Xenos invaders, executing Traitors and even repulsing a Psybrid incursion. Yet through it all Arvael had stood apart, watching for corruption and noting weaknesses in their hearts, as was his duty.

His eyes travelled to Charael's Justice and he considered its occupants. Once he had seen Captain Toran as a noble hero, saviour of the Fortress-Monastery and the victor of Angle's Redoubt, but as time had passed Arvael had come to believe that Toran had merely lucked into grabbing a precious relic blade and owed his promotion to Captain more to its legend than many would care to admit. Thankfully Toran was aware of this and had matured into his rank, but in Arvael's opinion he had long since outgrown that ridiculous cape, alas this bit he seemed blind to.

Unfortunately the command squad was also a gaggle of misfits and Arvael judged their elevation was rooted in nepotism on Toran's part. Furion was the most obvious example; Toran's oldest friend being elevated to Chaplain rank following the civil war. Arvael considered that blatant favouritism, but then he chided himself, for he was hardly an unbiased judge. Chaplain Furion's duty was to watch the Psyker, as the Librarian watched him in return, and execute him on the smallest hint of Daemonic possession. A fact Arvael was reminded of every time he looked at that skull helm.

Arvael widened his perspective and took in the Company as a whole. It was the simplest effort to open the door in his mind a crack, allowing a sliver of Warp power to enter and use this to expand his awareness beyond the boundaries of reality. Each Psyker perceived their abilities differently and Arvael's presented auras as metaphors of geography. Before his sight the auras of the Storm Heralds were laid bare, the Initiates being redoubtable crags and stern fortresses to his unique perception while the Scout-Novices were fallow fields, waiting to be sown with fertile crops.

Arvael felt the auras of the Land Raider's occupants and his attention dwelt upon Sergeant Orath. The Terminator's aura was like an avalanche, direct, powerful and unswerving. He was a destructive force but an honest one, without dissembling or deception. He wasn't discourteous to Arvael because of his psyker nature, Orath was equally boorish to everyone without indulgence or favour. Arvael genuinely respected him, though they weren't friends, a Librarian could afford no friends.

Then Arvael turned his mystic sight to the Dreadnought in their midst and his hearts fell. Honourable Ajax was a bubbling geyser of anger but not like some majestic spring, no he was an unstable jet, uncertain and liable to collapse. Only a Psyker could understand this, but Ajax's mind was failing, the burden of five millennia of war crushing his soul into dust. Only anger sustained him, the fires of his wrath searing the cracks in his mind shut temporarily. Ajax's need to protect his kin lent him purpose and his anger kept him moving but the geyser was going extinct and his long struggle was entering its last days. The Initiates would deny it to their dying breaths, but Ajax was fighting the grinding of eternity and he was losing. Then Arvael frowned, wait he thought, there was another imperative in Ajax's aura, a purpose unfilled, a task he felt compelled to fulfil before history claimed him…

Before Arvael could complete his thought the Pride of Lujan shuddered to a halt and the assault ramp slammed down. As the Terminators disembarked the Librarian vaulted from the hatch and slammed his boots into the dust. Before the convoy lay a city, with no perimeter wall or visible defences to protect it. The outermost buildings were clay brick, scoured raw by the thin wind, undoubtedly the dwellings of the poorest souls.

Arvael spied Captain Toran inspecting the approaches, as the squads swept possible sites for ambushes and he called, "Arvael, what can you tell me?"

Arvael knew Toran had read the briefing slates, but the Captain was asking for a greater perspective. Arvael drew another fragment of Warp energy into his mind and scanned the aura of the place, then declared, "Dunikin city, a meagre mining town of half a million souls. The impression of their lives lingers, they were a simple people cherishing no grand dreams or aspirations beyond living as they always had. Yet those lives were cut abruptly short, I sense that death came swiftly and suddenly. Whatever happened here did so very quickly and without warning."

Impatiently Orath pushed open a plyboard door with his Thunder hammer and stepped within, his wide bulk carving furrows into the jamb. There was a loud crack and then Orath backed out snarling, "Damnation, something put its head in the path of my boot."

Arvael spied a human corpse laid out in drab rags, its head having been crushed to paste by the Terminator's tread. Memnos hurried forward and examined the body, turning it over and peering at the remains. His Narthecium's saw went to work and he opened the corpse to examine the entrails. After a moment he reported briskly, "This corpse is desiccated, almost no moisture remains within. Time of expiration is impossible to estimate, it could have been here days or years. I can find no discernible cause of death, no weapon impacts, no signs of poisons or chemical agents. It's like she just lay down and waited to die."

Toran asked, "Could it be a side effect of the radiation in the atmosphere?"

Memnos shook his helm and said, "No radiation I've ever seen does this."

Arvael moved to the next building and peered within saying, "She wasn't the only one, there are more. Whole families died in each other's arms, they sought solace against the cold grip of death."

Suddenly Ajax rumbled, "I DO NOT LIKE THIS, MYSTERIES MAKE ME ANGRY."

Orath agreed loudly, "Aye, let's stop pussyfooting about and find something to hit."

Toran surveyed the area and ordered, "We must sweep the city and find answers. Divide up into three prongs: Furion, take the first and recon to the north, I will take the second force and probe the city centre. Sergeant Matheus lead the remaining forces south and keep in constant vox contact."

Arvael noted that both he and Orath had been passed over for a command, a minor insult but then Orath had never cared for such things and the Initiates would never trust Psykers, upon such inequalities was the Imperium built. Arvael put it from his mind, his duty was to serve not to quibble over protocol. Yet as they moved into the city proper Arvael's psychic senses tingled and he had the nagging feeling that he was missing something important.


	4. Chapter 4

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 4**

Over the city the wind blew, stirring washing left upon clothes lines and blowing doors shut with soft claps. It moved through empty buildings and down streets filled with mummified bodies, leaving a fine tracing of dust over everything. Many of the bodies were already starting to disappear, the beginning of a process that would eventually bury this city in a sea of shabby dust. Through the windy empty city the Storm Heralds advanced, sweeping building after building lest some unseen threat leap out and catch them unawares. They found nothing though, merely endless piles of bodies lying wherever they had fallen. They encountered countless dead but there was still no sign of any killers, whatever had claimed this city did not seem eager to reveal itself.

In the southern district Librarian Arvael had paused to examine a public fountain, a small metal font that spewed water into a stone trough. Arvael turn his helm to gaze at the spring, the connections between his helm and psychic hood pulling slightly and read an inscription carved into the stone. "Blessing of the Emperor," he read aloud, "We give thanks for His bounty."

There was a series of heavy stomps behind him and Arvael saw Orath approaching, his Thunder hammer and Storm Shield held firmly in his grip. The Terminator and his squadmates loomed over the area, filling the space with their awesome bulk. Orath and Arvael were escorting their vehicles deeper into the city, while Veteran Sergeant Matheus led the reconnaissance further ahead. Orath's immense weight resembled a walking tank, he had to lift his knees high with every step while his bulldog helm had a very limited range of movement yet he managed to convey his scorn as he spat, "Why are you poking that gewgaw?"

Arvael replied candidly, "I am gathering intelligence."

"Pah," Orath spat through his speaker grill, "What can rubbish like that possibly tell us?"

Arvael lifted his palm and cupped water from the spring then lifted it to his helm and sniffed, then declared, "Far too salty to drink, every drop of water on this world must be carefully filtered, but this is fouled."

"Librarians," Orath sniffed, "Always blathering nonsense."

Arvael disagreed, "Useful intelligence, the complex filtration system has failed but the pumps are still working. Whatever happened here occurred recently enough for basic machinery to keep running without operators."

Orath stomped about and said, "So the killers could still be nearby?"

Arvael sighed, "If you haven't scared them off with all that noise."

"Ha!" Orath sniggered as he gestured back the way they had come, "You do realise we have a Dreadnought, Rhinos and a Land Raider with us…. Its a bit late for stealth don't you think?"

Ajax seemed to have heard them talking for he turned and strode over to them. The war machine loomed over Orath, as the Terminator dwarfed Arvael, and Ajax stopped before the well. His sensor dome turned to face them and he said distantly, "Water."

Arvael frowned, "Honourable Ajax?"

"Water," Ajax repeated in a befuddled tone, "I no longer remember water tastes like."

Orath's aura flared with concern but Arvael gathered a sliver of Warp power and probed the Dreadnought's mind. It was eerie to be touching a mind that was half-machine, the cold grip of the grave already upon him and he felt the cracks in the ancient's psyche. Arvael watched for a response as he said said, "Ajax, we are searching for enemies."

Vaguely Ajax murmured, "Chapter Master Trago thinks the Alpha Legion has a base here."

Arvael dared to stir Ajax's flickering emotions as he said, "Trago is long dead, Phalros is our Chapter Master now."

Ajax's anger responded to the psychic stimulation and his voice suddenly boomed, "DON'T SPEAK TO ME LIKE I AM A CHILD. I KNOW OUR MISSION AND WE HAVE NO TIME FOR YOUR FOOLISH RAMBLINGS."

Arvael let go his power in relief, the Dreadnought's anger bringing him back to lucidity. Orath turned to face the Librarian, a question upon his lips but suddenly there was a double click on the Vox and Arvael's helm snapped around as he heard a youthful voice calling, "Scout-team Krassor to force commander Matheus, we have found evidence of combat in grid 011-030."

Arvael cut into the transmission and said, "Librarian Arvael, requesting permission to investigate, I am best suited to evaluate any findings."

Sergeant Matheus's voice came back, "Confirmed, let us know what you uncover."

With that Arvael jogged towards the reported contact, leaving the vehicles behind and followed by the weighty crumps of Orath's Terminators and Ajax's stomping gait. They swiftly passed down a side street, where Ajax's girth barely fit, and then emerged into another road, running parallel to the one they had been exploring. Arvael pulled up short here, for the piles of bodies were completely different to those they had seen before. Laid out along the sides of the road were more corpses but these ones had been blown wide open, revealing withered organs and many were missing limbs or heads. They had fallen in reposes of frantic activity, running to and fro, and Arvael's instant calculated that these people had not passed quietly or calmly.

Orath surveyed the scene saying, "Looks like somebody came through here with a bolter and let rip."

Arvael's gaze settled on a wall, which looked like it had been chewed away to leave a huge hole then he replied, "Possibly… but what did that?"

"Plasma guns?" Orath guessed, "Or maybe warp-fire, Traitors use infernal weapons."

"TRAITORS!" Ajax suddenly rumbled as his weapon systems cycled loudly, "THEY SHALL NOT BE SUFFERED TO LIVE!"

Arvael noted the sharp focus in the Dreadnought's voice, anger lending him a surge of vitality. Yet Arvael demurred, "Do not make assumptions, they are the well-springs of mistakes. Let us learn what the scout-novices have uncovered."

"Pah," Orath snorted, "Scouts are always jumping at nothing, like a feline scared of its own shadow."

Arvael ignored the slur and walked up the street, noting the piles of bodies strewn everywhere. They were all equally damaged, ripped to pieces by explosive rounds while odd craters bloomed here and there and the more Arvael saw the more he was certain they matched no weapon he was familiar with. Soon they spied a squad of scouts further down the road and they increased their pace, the youthful Scout-leader was stood in a camo-cape with goggles pushed back on his forehead and his jaw fell wide in awe as he beheld Ajax and the Terminators bearing down on him. Arvael grabbed his attention by snapping, "Novice Krassor, pick up your jaw and make a report!"

The lad blinked and then proclaimed, "We found this scene of battle, it stretches for miles through the city, we haven't determined the end of it yet but we did find this anomaly."

Arvael peered around the lad and spied another body lying among the dead, but this one was different to the desiccated corpses. It was a giant body, clad in Ceramite armour that had been gnawed away at the abdomen to leave a gaping hole right through to the other side. An elongated bolter lay alongside the corpse, its casing holed in several places. The ruined armour was clean in its lines, a shade of blue quite unlike the Storm Herald's own and marked with grey chevrons. It was also differently shaped to their ancient wargear, with modifications and ablative plates added so it could fit the enlarged frame of the warrior.

"A Space Marine," Arvael exclaimed in shock, "Mark X Tacticus plate, only Primaris wear that, though I don't recognise the Chapter markings."

Orath's head lowered as much as his hefty armour allowed and he growled, "What the hell was he doing here? And what killed him, his armour looks like it was gnawed by vermin."

Arvael knelt to inspect the body close up and he mused, "Unknown, but look at the positions of the corpses nearby, look at the ballistic angles of this scene. These people were killed by this Primaris, no doubt about it, he was killing them when he died."

Orath paused for a moment then said, "Primaris are stuck-up prigs but they don't kill without reason, why would one be shooting into a crowd of mortals?"

Suddenly Ajax rumbled, "YOU TWO WILL CEASE YOUR PRATTLING AND TELL ME WHAT THE FRAK A PRIMARIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE."

Orath stomped around to peer at the Dreadnought then asked, "You don't know?"

Ajax growled, "I HAVE BEEN ASLEEP FOR A DECADE."

Aravel was glad Ajax's mind was back in the here and now and informed him, "When the Primarch declared the Indomitus Crusade he also unveiled a new Founding. Not just new Chapters, but a newly invented type of Astartes, faster, stronger and refined to a higher standard. They posses new wargear and the most secret innovations of Mars."

"SO NOT TRAITORS THEN," Ajax grumbled irritably, "BUT INVENTION AND INNOVATION ARE STILL HERESY."

Arvael responded smoothly, "It was the Primarch's will."

Ajax was silent for a long moment then uttered, "WELL THAT IS A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT SCENARIO, BUT KEEP THEM AWAY FROM ME."

Orath chuckled, "Don't get so worked up, I've met Primaris and they aren't that impressive. Fancy gadgets or not, nothing beats Tactical Dreadnought plate."

"Be that as it may this is the first clue we have found," Arvael muttered, "We need to know what this Marine was doing here."

Orath's bulldog helm fixed upon the Librarian as he inquired, "What about the armour logs?"

Arvael checked the body but sadly reported, "Destroyed beyond recovery… I will have to employ more unconventional means."

The scouts and Terminators backed up as Arvael's psychic hood glimmered with power, nobody wanted to be too close to a Psyker at work. Deep within his soul Arvael undid the locks restraining his connection to the Warp and let a glimmer of power seep through. He could have let out a torrent but that would be counterproductive, for this he needed a scalpel not a sledgehammer. Arvael translated the power through his crafted neural architecture, forming it into a razor sharp implement, then he extended his mind and sliced into the dead Primaris' aura. Arvael's power was associated with the physical world, with the here and now, but the moment of death left traces behind, a shadow cast upon the wall of reality. Psychometry was a delicate art, more of a knack than a skill, but Arvael had undergone the required training.

He punched his probe into the dead warrior's aura and beheld the outer layers flying away, dissipating in the aether. He knew the aura would unravel fast once disturbed and pressed deeper, tearing apart the imprint of death left upon the world. Random impressions flashed by, the smell of lapping powders, the feeling of a bolt rifle kicking hard, the taste of recycled water and a sunset so green it could only have occurred on a Xenos world. The impressions came in a flood of random sensations, so finding anything genuinely useful was difficult, he was like a thief desperately ransacking a house, grabbing whatever he could before he was caught. He could feel memories slipping through his hands even as he tried to grasp them, the knowledge of who this warrior was and whom he was fighting frayed apart before Arvael's feeble grasp could secure them. Names, places, orders, even the warrior's identity were lost as Arvael fumbled for meaning and he felt his frustration mounting, throwing off his concentration.

With an effort of willpower Arvael forced calm upon his mind, reciting ancient mantras of stillness as he focussed his search upon the last warrior's last memory. Then he found something, a mental map the warrior had made of this battlefield. Understanding dawned and Arvael comprehended where this Marine had started from and where he was headed. Arvael's snapped his mind back to his body, feeling the weight of his bones settle on his soul. He saw the warrior's aura evaporate and he breathed out as he let go of his power. Arvael opened his eyes and knew that barely a second had passed for everyone else. He centred himself then declared, "I have the location of his abandoned base in this city and the direction they left in."

Orath gripped his Thunder hammer and said, "So what do we first? Search where he came from or see where he was going?"

"Not our decision," Arvael stated as he rose to his feet, "I better vox the Captain, he needs to know what we've found."


	5. Chapter 5

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 5**

Toran was getting impatient, plagued by a nagging feeling that they were moving too slowly. He had no idea where this notion was coming from but it was persistent, pushing him to go faster. It was an odd impulse, for they were hardly in danger, his team's search of Dunikin city had turned up nothing but thousands upon thousands of desiccated bodies. Yet somehow Toran was not reassured, constantly waiting for a threat to emerge. A long-dead training instructor from his youth had called this intuition 'an itchy trigger finger' and he had learned to trust that instinct, even when he didn't understand it.

Behind him the Razorback Charael's Justice rumbled along, twin heavy bolters sweeping the surrounding buildings. Behind that came Rhino transports and at the rear the Predator-Destructor, Scourge of Heretics, kept its turret in constant motion. Toran and his squads were walking apace with the tanks, while the Scout-novices checked their path was clear. It was slow work to clear all possible avenues of attack but Toran had no choice other than to abide. The Codex Astartes waxed lyrical about the necessity of mechanised forces engaging in urban environments to have infantry support and its edicts on the matter were numerous.

Still Toran grimaced under his helm, hours they had been in this city and found nothing of note. Save for the Librarian's vox call he would have been prepared to write this endeavour off as futile. Finally he spied a gap in the buildings ahead and the lowly dwellings gave way to a wide square, sitting between the cities' mining derricks and the huge slag-heap that loomed over the houses. It seemed to be a loading yard for cargo-8's to load ingots of base metals, before being shipped to orbital shuttles, yet someone had erected a perimeter wall of prefab metal bulwarks, each one slightly higher than Toran's helm. The Captain spied a shattered gate in the wall and waved his team towards it, only to be greeted by the sight of Veteran Sergeant Matheus, standing guard with his Tactical squad.

Toran strode forward and called, "Hail Brother, my congratulations on this discovery."

Matheus made the sign of the Aquila and replied, "Hail Brother-Captain, alas I can't take the credit, Honourable Ajax and Sergeant Orath led us here."

Toran noted that Arvael hadn't been mentioned, but then Librarians rarely got any laurels, he put it from his mind and asked, "Are they inside?"

Matheus nodded, "Aye and Furion's team too, I elected to arrange security around the perimeter."

A smile tugged at Toran's lip under his helm and he remarked, "Showing initiative eh? Are you measuring your armour for a Captain's Iron Halo?"

Matheus' mirth was evident as he replied, "Rumours abound that the Storm Herald's numbers grow, soon we must consider restoring Fifth Company… Captain Matheus, you have to admit it has a nice ring to it."

"I'll be the first to present your name to the Masters," Toran affirmed, "Carry on Matheus."

With that Toran led his team into the yard and found the rest of Third Company guarding the walls or searching the area. He waved his team to join them, the vehicles trundling off to park alongside their compatriots, while Brother Persion looked around and said, "Not much to look at."

Toran agreed, the yard was filled with corrugated-roofed sheds and empty tents, along with discarded crates and idle cargo-8's. The whole area was dusty and drab, scattered with loose grit, yet what really caught his eye were the signs of war. Bodies were strewn everywhere, blown apart by bolter fire or incinerated by plasma. They looked as withered as the rest of the bodies in the city, each one mummified as if they had laid here for decades. Among those bodies were the bulky forms of Primaris Marines in a variety of colours, each one chewed apart or missing limbs and heads. Toran counted a dozen Transhumans in one glance and he guessed that they had died fighting an unknown enemy.

"Everybody disperse," Toran ordered, "Memnos, see what you can learn." The Apothecary obliged by moving to inspect the corpses, opening each one meticulously with his Narthecium. Meanwhile the Command squad took in the scene and Novak exclaimed, "Would you look at that."

Toran saw the Champion was staring at dual-hulled gunship and remarked, "Overlord pattern: the Primaris' favoured drop-ship. Something took its whole wing off."

Persion sighed, "I never cared for those floating tanks of theirs, but those gunships are majestic. It's a damn shame seeing one laid low."

Toran looked about and saw another one like it, also wrecked, along with a few spent drop-pods. He mused, "Primaris transports but barely enough to deploy a company… Oh, for Throne's sake, Jediah leave that alone!"

Jediah had picked up a dropped Plasma rifle, he was eyeing along its barrel and fiddling with the settings as he asserted, "They've been mucking around with the design again, this cooling system is far more compact than the last time we ran into Primaris Marines."

Toran scowled as he replied, "Your evaluation is noted, now drop it."

Yet Jediah hefted the weapon and said, "I think it's still functional, we could keep it."

Toran glared at his wayward Brother and snarled, "Employ unblessed and unsanctioned innovations?! This shall not be, the Forgemaster has issued strict instructions to all Companies that the Storm Heralds will not sully our wargear's spirits with this flagrant and unrepentant invention."

Jediah gripped the rifle tighter and said, "But…"

Toran fixed him with a glare and said very slowly, "Put. It. Down."

Their gazes locked for a heartbeat but then Jediah relented, his respect for others was meagre but the Captain's implacable will was superior to his. Jediah dropped the gun and left it behind as he stepped away. Toran let the matter lie but then he spied another party approaching, it was Chaplain Furion, along with Librarian Arvael and Terminator Sergeant Orath. Honourable Ajax was absent, patrolling the wall seemingly determined to check every inch of the perimeter.

The trio strode up to the Captain and Orath skipped the pleasantries by uttering, "What took you so long?"

Toran knew there was no point quibbling rank protocols with the First Company veteran and asked, "What have you discovered?"

Furion answered that, his skull helm looking like actual bone in the gloomy twilight, "Not much, this was a base of operations for an eclectic Primaris force, but it is meagre. They seemed to be lacking in equipment or supplies. Most of this stuff is local gear, probably requisitioned after they arrived."

Novak wondered aloud, "Maybe they took all their good gear with them when they left."

Arvael countered that idea, "No, they left in great haste and under attack by something that overwhelmed their defence. We see evidence they were shooting at the mortals, but we do not understand why, these bodies are all unarmed."

Persion spat, "That makes no sense, unarmed mortals present no threat to Transhumans. Why would Primaris come here to fight wastrels like this?"

Toran looked over the dry and dusty battlefield as he pondered deeply and said, "Primaris are affiliated with Terra and Mars, I presume they were here for our rendezvous. They may have been an escort for the emissary we were sent to meet, then something surprised them… but what?"

Furion sounded concerned as he said, "Mysteries abound and we have found nothing but a city full of corpses. Why is this world dead? Why did the Primaris withdraw? What does any of this have to do with that radioactive crater we saw?"

Toran sighed, "We need answers, we are fumbling in the dark, lost and without purpose."

At that Arvael interjected, "Captain, I lifted the direction they fled to from a dead Primaris. Orbital scans of the vector reveal a series of jagged hills and sharp valleys a hundred kilometres north of here. If I was trapped on this world, facing a deadly threat, that's where I'd base myself."

Persion remarked, "Sounds like a good place to look next."

However Toran demurred, "Not yet, there are still unanswered questions here."

"So, some mortals got killed," Orath spat in irritation, "Why does that concern us?"

Yet Toran ignored him musing, "Something is off here, something is missing... but I can't quite put my finger on it."

Furion uttered in surprise, "You feel it too? That sense that this battlefield is fundamentally wrong."

Arvael sounded doubtful as he said, "I sense no signs of life."

But Persion retorted, "No, I know what he means. I look at this place and something niggles at me, like a missing bolt clip in my pouches."

Jediah concurred, "I feel like a thousand eyes are fixed on my back."

Novak added, "Thank the throne, I thought it was just me feeling this way."

Toran turned to survey the yard, taking in the piles of dusty corpses and the wrecked machines. All seemed calm and secure but his trigger finger was itching more than ever and somehow he knew this place was wrong. Instincts honed over a century of warfare were screaming that a threat hung over their heads but he could not for the life of him articulate what it was.

Toran was shaken from his introspection as he saw Memnos stand up, cleaning his Narthecium of gore with a can of sterilising spray. The Captain faced Memnos and inquired, "Apothecary, what did you find?"

Memnos shook his white helm and replied, "Mysteries and enigmas."

"Could you try being less ambiguous?" Orath snorted from behind the Captain.

Memnos declared in exasperation, "I've examined the bodies of the Primaris and they share a similar cause of death. Their armour and flesh have been violated by some caustic agent, a form of acid more potent than anything I've ever seen. It ripped through them like they were made of parchment. Ceramite and skin, bone and organs, nothing could withstand its touch."

Arvael sounded thoughtful as he pondered, "Could it be that the mortals concealed such a chemical agent in the base?"

Jediah added, "Maybe they double-crossed the Primaris, sneaked acid bombs into their perimeter before betraying them?"

Toran frowned as his suspicions found a focus, he looked about the base and said, "The mortals… tell me of them."

Memnos sucked in a slow breath and then elaborated, "It's bizarre, I opened up a few bodies and found wounds typical to bolt weapons and a few plasma blasts too. But here's the weird part, those weren't the cause of death, as far as I can tell these wounds were caused post-mortem."

Persion sounded confused as he said, "The Primaris wasted ammo shooting at dead bodies?"

Novak said, "I knew they were arrogant but that's plain stupid."

Toran however wasn't listening, for the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood up in alarm. His gaze traversed the base and suddenly it was obvious what was missing, it was so blatant that he had completely missed it, they all had.

"Bloodstains," he gasped, "Hundreds were slaughtered here… so where are the bloodstains?"

Everybody started in surprise and Novak exclaimed, "By the Maelstrom he's right! I've never seen a battlefield so clean!"

Toran mentally kicked himself for so elementary a blunder but at that moment there was a cry from Sergeant Matheus at the gate, "Brother-Captain, a survivor approaches!" Toran's head snapped about and his helm's autosenses focussed upon the perimeter, revealing a gaunt and emaciated girl standing outside the gate. She was eerily thin, with pocked-marked skin and lank black hair, that hung over her face to hide her features. Even from this range Toran could see her eyes were closed but she appeared starved and haggard, a waif from a land of famine. Time slowed around Toran and he felt like he was moving through treacle as he pulled the Sword of Thiel from its scabbard and roared, "To arms Brothers, that's no survivor!"

The Tactical Marines at the gate reacted with blinding swiftness, bringing up their bolters to bracket the girl but even as they did so her eyes opened, revealing what horrors lay underneath. The orbs were decayed and rotting, putrid slime covering them in decaying muck. Nothing living could have produced such filth and the pallor of death was unmistakable, yet in those depths burned an obscene green spark, a putrid corpse light that radiated the corrupting energies of the Warp. Toran barely had time to take a step before the walking corpse hissed, "Ksssssssshh!" and it threw itself forward. Its cry was matched by the wailing of hundreds of thousands of undead throats in the metropolis beyond, then as one, the ghosts of Dunikin city rose to turn their infernal gaze upon the Storm Heralds.


	6. Chapter 6

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 6**

The revenant came straight at them; its arms held outwards with fingers so withered they resembled claws. Every inch of it was shrivelled and parched, its skin pitied and grey like it had laid under the burning sun for a year and a day. Its limbs were emaciated and disturbingly thin yet it moved with startling speed, breaking into a sprint as it dove at the Astartes manning the gate.

The animated cadaver managed to take a whole step before the first bolt round struck it, slamming into a shoulder before detonating to blow the limb clean off. Stunningly the revenant wasn't fazed by the loss of an arm, still bearing down on Matheus' squad with inhuman determination. It managed another whole step before another bolt round blasted its guts out but still it came on, even with half its body blown away it kept running. A third step touched dirt but then a bolt round struck its skull and blew the head apart, spraying brains everywhere and the cadaver at last fell inert to the ground.

Toran beheld everything as he raced for the gate, Command squad in tow. He witnessed the undead creature's resilient nature and how much it took to put one down. Yet worse than that was the wailing of hundreds of thousands more, coming from all directions and he knew the Storm Heralds were surrounded on all sides by undead revenants. Any other force would have been shocked into immobility, stunned by disbelief and denial but Space Marines were gene-forged and hypno-indoctrinated to be immune to such trauma. Toran's boots pounded the dusty ground and his cloak billowed in his wake as he roared, "Guard the walls, Codex pattern Theta-Seven! Assault squads and Honourable Ajax form a flying reserve and watch the walls for flanking attacks. Scout-novices take up elevated position on the vehicles and lay down suppressive fire."

In the time he had taken to say that he had reached the gate and he skidded to a halt beside Sergeant Orath. The Tactical squad were armed with a Heavy Bolter and a Flamer, while the Sergeant himself had grav-pistol and chainsword. Together they formed up in a line between the shattered gate posts, weapons held ready as Orath and his Terminators lumbered to a halt and created a wall of Storm Shields and Lightning claws. From the city beyond came the screeching of countless revenants and Toran knew they had seconds until the dead of Dunikin city came for them. He scanned the ground and saw they had a clear field of fire for twenty metres on three sides with the slag-heap cutting off approaches from the fourth. With a second to spare he queried, "Memnos, tell me the dead inside our walls are neutralised."

Memnos answered, "Each one has had its skull or brain-stem destroyed, whatever is causing this needs the nervous system intact to manipulate the dead."

"Head-shots are our priority Brothers," Toran ordered sheathing his sword in preference for his bolter, "Destroy their brains!"

Barely had the words got out of his mouth when the surroundings buildings erupted in a wave of pallid grey flesh, hundreds upon hundreds of screeching undead horrors pouring out of the gaps between the dwellings. They ran with corpse gasps escaping from their deflated lungs, a susurrus terrifying enough to freeze spines and stops the hearts of the living. Men and women, old and young, rich and poor alike, all of them dead and decaying yet still moving. They came at the Storm Heralds with claw-like fingers held out before them and shrivelled lips making their morbid grins seem almost gleeful.

Toran saw them close and cried, "Heavy weapons, fire!" The Heavy bolter let fly, firing thundering rounds into the packed ranks of corpses. Many fiends were blown open by the barrage, ripped apart by the mass-reactive rounds. Such a weapon lacked the necessary precision for head-shots but the rounds caused such devastation that the revenants fell anyway. The stream of fire swept back and forth but it was only one weapon and could not halt the horde, then they crossed into bolter range and the rest of the Astartes opened up.

Toran saw a withered man in workers overalls and he turned his weapon towards the revenant as he pulled his trigger. The Master-crafted bolter fired with a familiar kick and he sent a trio of rounds to obliterate the undead fiend's head and shoulders. Another came at him and another but he put each one down with crisp and precise bursts, cutting down enemies with exacting skill. Unfortunately, despite his growing tally, the numbers of the foes were growing exponentially, for each one put down five more would take their place. They advanced into the teeth of deadly firepower, ignoring their fallen as they hurled their desiccated flesh at the Storm Heralds.

Toran obliterated a screeching old hag and felt his magazine rattle empty; he paused for a second to reload and as he did so he assessed the situation. All around him the squads were pouring on fire, mowing down the fiends left and right. Further along the line he heard the hammering of bolters and heavy weapons, accompanied by sniper shots from the Scout-Novices and autocannon fire from the Predators in the centre. Amongst that racket the roar of Ajax's assault cannon rung out, the Dreadnought adding his fury to the barrage but the enemy was coming from all directions and the Storm Heralds only had so many guns.

As Toran hefted his reloaded bolter he saw Chaplain Furion blasting his Storm Bolter in wide sweeps as he bellowed, "Stand fast Brothers! Show them the Emperor's Fury!"

Persion was sniping away with his bolt pistol, taking off heads one after another and he yelled, "I think I've deduced why the Primaris withdrew from here!"

Jediah matched him round for round, every shot a kill, as he snarled, "Ponder mysteries later, concentrate on the damned fight!"

Toran resumed firing, blasting away at the closing undead, the Storm Heralds were mowing them down in droves but ever more piled in and he cried, "Arvael, how many more are out there?"

The Librarian yelled back, "This city housed half a million souls!"

Sergeant Matheus crushed a walking corpse into a tiny ball with a shot from his grav-pistol as he shouted, "The approach is too open and they are many, we can't hold them all back!"

Toran saw he was right, despite their efforts the revenants were mere feet away and he barked, "Flamer now!"

With a whoosh of Promethium a plume of liquid fire shot from the defender's line, engulfing the undead horrors. Clothes and skin went up in flames as the dry flesh caught alight, a wall of searing flames spreading over the packs of undead. Yet the mindless fiends were inured to pain or injury and the blistering inferno did not scare them. Withered muscles and ligaments popped and crackled as they roasted but it was slow and only a score succumbed to the incandescent flames. The rest dove over the bodies of the fallen as if they were nothing and pounced on the Storm Heralds.

Toran stowed his bolter and pulled his sword free but as he did so he saw a dead-eyed child leap onto the flamer bearing Brother Rotax. Claw-like fingers scrambled impotently over Ceramite armour, unable to penetrate the hardened surface but then the revenant threw back its head and convulsed before spewing out a torrent of neon green vomit. The bile covered Rotax's torso and bit into the blessed plate as if it was soft fruit, gnawing through it in seconds. Armour, skin, bones and muscles disintegrated in the caustic soup and with a brief scream Rotax collapsed into a pile of stinking offal. Toran couldn't believe his eyes; Brother Rotax was gone, reduced to a few scraps of ceramite plate and softening bones. His hearts burned with the need to avenge the death yet his will was rigid and as the undead ran through the flames he yelled, "Fall-back and deny, keep them at arm's length!"

Step by step the defenders of the gate withdrew, hacking and slashing at the shrivelled hands clawing after them. At the centre of their formation the Terminators formed the bedrock of the defence, an unbreakable bastion of defiance. Clawing fingers skittered off their thick plate and sprays of acid bile splattered off their Storm Shields but the in-built energy fields protected the integrity of the metal, if not the proud colours which swiftly were scorched bald. In return Thunder Hammers and lightning claws struck as regularly as a metronome, anything they hit was obliterated and Orath bellowed, "These scum can't match us one on one!"

Persion carved a fiend in two with his burning Friction axe and spat back, "Maybe you didn't notice but they outnumber us five thousand to one!"

Toran knew it was true and yelled, "Furion, can your Crozius lend us aid?"

The Chaplain was busy hacking apart a revenant clawing at his black armour but he shouted, "Storm-heart has no settings that can stun the dead!"

Toran snarled in frustration but suddenly Arvael cried, "Everybody brace!"

In the corner of his eye Toran spied the Librarian sweep his arms out wide then his psychic hood flared with power as he smacked his palms together. Instantly a Psychic shockwave blew forth, an omnidirectional blast of pure telekinetic power that surged from the Librarian's hands. Toran was nearly bowled off his feet by the force of it, swaying like a drunkard as the power flowed around him. The Revenants however were picked up by the blast and flung away, withered arms and legs flailing, scattered like leaves on the wind. A single heartbeat had been bought for the Space Marines to reform and they seized the moment to prepare, facing the packs of undead even as they surged back into the fight. Packs of revenants leapt at them and Toran took off the head of the first to come at him with a sweep of his long blade. A glassy-eyed man spewed acid at the Captain but he dodged right and his cloak took the worst of it, tearing a great chunk out of the red cloth but leaving him unharmed. He rallied and swept his blade diagonally, tearing the revenant in half and as he did so he yelled, "Arvael what are these horrors?"

The Librarian was swinging his telekinetic morning-star, blasting away hissing undead with huge claps of thunder but he yelled, "Tis' the Curse of Unbelief! The Plague God taints this world; these fiends do the bidding of Lord of Entropy. T'was reported the dead walked before Cadia fell!"

Novak elegantly sidestepped a spray of bile and struck the head off the horror responsible as he cried, "Did it say anything about them spewing acid?!"

"No!" Arvael yelled as he staved in a skinless skull, "That's bit's new!"

Toran snarled in anger as he redoubled his efforts, slicing rotting limbs off a corpse then stomping down to crush the skull of the flailing revenant. Another came at him in a white dress, looking like a banshee of myth but Toran put the Sword of Thiel through its face and ended its wail. All around him the squad fought on, shattering and slicing apart the fiends before they could come close enough to unleash their acidic vomit. The undead had no grasp of tactics and no fighting skills but their numbers were beyond counting and they had to be engaged at arm's length lest their bile claim more lives. Perhaps in narrower confines the Storm Heralds could have bottlenecked the foe, but this day they were surrounded and outflanked. The inescapable truth was that tide was turning, no matter how many fiends they ended ever more poured out of the city.

Suddenly Toran heard the noise peak to his right and saw the squads manning the walls battling hand to hand. They were fighting with all fury but their knives and bolter stocks could not keep the screeching revenants at bay. Flashes of green blazed briefly and Toran spied Space Marines falling as vicious acid tore them apart, the metal walls collapsing as warp-filth dissolved the barricades. The battle had turned against the Storm Heralds and Toran saw the defences were about to be overrun. His mind flashed through a thousand practicals but none of them were feasible, the only option now was to regroup and form a proper defence. His fury burned hot but did not hesitate to call, "Fall back into the compound and form a circle around the vehicles! Stand true Brothers and prepare to give them everything you've got!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 7**

The yard rang with the clamour of war, cries of defiance accompanied by the clash of bolters and the roaring of heavy weapons. In opposition rose the sibilant hissing of the dead, wave after wave of desiccated corpses racing into the battle with the light of the Warp in their eyes. The Storm Heralds were mowing them down in droves but they came in from all directions, surrounding the Astartes on all sides. The Space Marines responded by withdrawing from the walls, falling back to form a tight ring of defence around their vehicles. They presented their weapons to the fore and let fly, shooting constantly into the packs of undead horrors keeping them at bay with sheer weight of fire. Bolters blazed and missiles flew, lascannons spat thick beams of energy while flamers belched and Grav-cannons crushed foes with knots of invisible force.

At the centre of the ring the vehicles unleashed their fury, every weapon firing ceaselessly. Scourge of Heretics rocked on its treads as its autocannon hammered while Charael's Justice swept its twin heavy bolters back and forth. Pride of Lujan discharged its lascannons, incinerating a pair of fiends but in this fight its heavy bolters were more useful and they unleashed tongues of fire and thunderous retorts. Even the Rhinos were firing, their storm bolters adding whatever might they could while from their roofs Scout-novices added whatever weight Sniper rifles and shotguns could offer.

Toran was stood in the front of the ring, hacking apart any foes whom made it through the barrage of fire. With him were his command squad and the Terminators, reinforced by both Assault squads. He ripped the Sword of Thiel through the neck of a shrieking corpse and then it swung wide, tearing off the top of a skull, splattering putrid brains over the ground. He hacked apart any who came near him but ever more were pressing forward and the pressure on the circle was growing ever greater.

As he fought Toran was talking on his vox, "Thunderchild, come in Thunderchild, this is Captain Toran requesting immediate air support."

The vox crackled and then a distant serf voxed back, "Confirmed, Thunderhawks deploying, ETA twenty minutes."

Toran wanted to snap at the man that they didn't have twenty minutes but he knew it was pointless; civilians seemed to think aeroplanes could just patrol the skies eternally but reality disagreed. Without a ground base the Thunderhawks had to be refuelled in orbit, delaying their response and this mission had been reconnaissance, not the full-scale attack that would have justified a forward base.

Toran returned his attention to the fight, swinging his blade wide to clear some space. The teeming masses of pallid grey limbs reached for him but he slashed and hacked at their rotting flesh, keeping them at bay. To his right Novak slammed his combat shield into a toothless maw a second before a tide of bile could spray forward, the head slammed back and the acid was choked back down, eating the revenant apart from the inside out. The Champion immediately cut down two more fiends with his dancing sword and yelled, "Are we on our own then?"

Toran didn't want to answer him but thankfully Furion must have heard for he roared over the din, "This foulness offend the Emperor! Let them hear your hatred and know that we are the instruments of His contempt!"

The Storm Heralds bellowed their defiance and redoubled their efforts, scything down the fiends left and right. Toran knew they were slaying thousands but in his mind, he was counting down the remaining ammo and he could not avoid the fact that the enemy had more bodies than they had bolt shells. Once they ran out of ammo the fight would be over. He was just about to contact the Thunderchild and request a resupply via drop-pod but right then the revenants surged on the right flank.

Blazing contrails of bolt rounds flew from the circle of defenders but the fiends used their fallen as shields and a pack charged into combat. Plumes of acidic bile spayed forth, hitting Devastator squad Zeax and Toran saw Brothers Paqua and Durilla go down, their armour melting under the corrosive touch. The Captain was caught in the thick of the fight and could not move but he commanded, "Assault squads, reinforce the right flank!"

In response a half dozen Marines soared out of the fight, flying high on contrails of jump pack thrust. Their fiery wake blew revenants back a step as they flew high, then they reached the apex of their arc and fell back down. They slammed down hard, throwing shrivelled bodies to the ground and their chainswords roared as they decapitated the undead one by one. The defender's circle hastily reformed, closing the gaps but the weight of foes was growing and they could not hold forever.

A flash of white heralded Memnos racing to tend to the murdered Brothers, Toran doubted their gene-seed was salvageable but such was the Apothecary's duty. Resolutely the Captain fought on, the energy field around the Sword of Thiel flaring with every stroke but he knew this situation was untenable. Desperately he scanned the area, looking for some way to change the situation in their favour and he spied the towering mound of the slag-heap.

"Arvael," he yelled as loudly as he could, "Can you bring down that mound and bury them?"

Arvael was beset by a fiend with a skinless face, he punched it in the chest and sent it soaring away with a burst of power then cried, "That is not within my power!"

Sergeant Orath was relentlessly battering a fiend to bits as he snarled, "This is no time to be modest!"

Arvael was forced back a step by another revenant but barked, "It's too loose, it would be like trying to gather a sandpit with your bare hands."

"Frak!" Orath swore, "Then we have no choice but to break them all!"

Toran yelled back, "No, we can't best half a million of these nightmares. This fight is unwinnable, we have to attempt a breakout!"

Furion caught a fiend with an underhand blow of his Corzius as he countered, "Casualties will be heavy."

"If we stay we all die," Toran lamented.

Suddenly a fiend leapt towards Orath clamping onto his storm shield and spewing vomit over the rim. The Terminator was splattered with acid and the outer ceramite layers burned off but Tactical Dreadnought plate was legendarily robust and the Adamantium layers underneath held true. Unfortunately Toran wasn't so fortunate, a splatter caught his arm and burned through the ceramite, chewing away the skin and muscles beneath. The Captain snarled as pain flared from the wound but his grip on his sword did not slacken and he gritted his teeth against the agony and fought on. The circle of blue was shrinking, unable to hold their ground in the face of countless numbers and the swarm of undead seemed to sense their moment had come and bunched up to surge forward. Toran saw their frenzy peak and knew the Storm Heralds were about to be overrun, he steeled himself to give the order to retreat, a command that would surely cost many lives, but before he could say a word an almighty thunder rolled over the battlefield accompanied by a bellow of mechanical rage.

Suddenly a torrent of blazing tracers slammed into the massed undead, slicing bodies apart like a buzzsaw through wood. Rotten limbs went flying and torsos were ripped asunder as a tornado of annihilation swept the foe, blowing a massive hole into the packed ranks of undead. In the wake of that salvo came the crashing footsteps of Honourable Ajax, his towering bulk hurling itself into the space he had blitzed. The massed fiends hissed as they turned towards him but before they could react he was amongst them, power fist blasting away dozens of them at a stroke. Ajax waded into the middle of them, wrecking absolute carnage and he roared, "FACE YOUR DOOM FILTH!"

Toran's hearts surged as the mighty Contemptor swung his arm left and sent a dozen revenants flying away in pieces, dismembered limbs and heads sailing over the packed crowds. Simultaneously his assault cannon unleashed an onslaught to his right, scything apart undead bodies in a wave of destruction. Like an artic boat breaking up ice floes he stormed through the ranks of enemies, cleaving a path towards the open gate and he proclaimed, "DEATH SHALL NOT BE DENIED TWICE!"

Ajax's charge carved a deep furrow into the crowds of fiends and set against any other foe he would have shattered their will, but these horrors had no concept of fear. "Ksssssh!" the undead seethed as they turned from the Storm Heralds to confront the Dreadnought, the threat of his weapons drawing them away. Mindless revenants embraced their destruction so the rest could force their way past his blazing weapon arms and claw at this thick chassis. Skittering nails scratched futilely at his armour plating but did nothing more than mar his paint, yet their vitriol was another matter. Sprays of corrosive bile washed over his reinforced plates, softening metal and searing holes into the matter of his being. Centimetres of armour were stripped off Ajax's frame in moments and the Contemptor roared furiously as he drowned in foes.

Toran saw the Dreadnought's distress and barked, "Ajax is in danger, covering fire now!" Scores of bolters were brought to bear and as one they let fly, decimating the packs surrounding Ajax. Rounds pinged off his harmlessly off his pitted armour but the exposed undead were torn to shreds, flurries of destruction claiming scores of them. In a heartbeat a gap was cleared around Ajax and the Dreadnought surged forward once more, resuming his charge into the heart of the foe. His fury was incandescent and nothing could stay his wrath as he mowed a path towards the open gate, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Toran saw opportunity unfolding and he roared, "He's done it, he's cleared the way! Follow Ajax, follow his lead!"

As one the Storm Heralds charged along the path Ajax has cleared for them. Initiates, Scouts, Terminators and Tanks, all of them rolling forward in a wave of blue-ceramite. The numberless undead turned back but too slowly and the Storm Heralds reached the gate before their frenzy could come to bear. The Space Marines poured through the gate and reformed on the other side, the first through laying down fire for those following behind. Toran skidded to a halt beside Ajax who had turned back, his assault cannon laying down suppressive fire to allow his brethren to disengage. The Contemptor was smoking all over, every inch of him pitted by acid marks but he swept his weapon back and forth, keeping the revenants at bay. Toran saw Ajax set his feet in place, determined to hold his ground but the Captain cried, "Ajax, we are clear, fall-back now!"

But Ajax didn't relent in his firing as he bellowed, "GO LITTLE BROTHER, I WILL HOLD THE REARGUARD AND BUY YOU TIME TO GET OUT."

Toran was stunned by that proclamation but he shouted, "We won't leave you here to die!"

Ajax whipped his spinning cannon across the foe's ranks again, trying to hold back the endless masses closing on them, as he roared, "THIS IS MY GROUND AND I WILL HOLD IT! NONE SHALL BE ALLOWED TO HURT MY KIN!"

Toran had absolutely no time to argue and shouted angrily, "Ajax we still have to fight our way out of the city, the dead infest every inch of it. We won't make it without you; we need you at the fore!"

"WARP HELLS!" Ajax roared as he lifted his mighty fist high and then he slammed it into the ground with all his might. A thunderous clap rang forth and the ground shook as the disruption field blasted outwards in a miniature earthquake. Toran was almost knocked from his feet and staggered to regain his balance but the undead were thrown to the ground, flailing about as they flapped their limbs and gnashed their teeth.

With a moment's respite Ajax turned and strode away growling, "DON'T JUST STAND THERE LOOKING DUMB, GET YOUR ARSE MOVING."

Toran sighed in relief then commanded, "Third Company mount up, we're driving out of here and we stop for nothing!"

With that he dove into Charael's Justice and the convoy set forth at top speed, crushing fallen revenants under their treads as they headed for the distant edge of the city. Thousands of undead yet stood between them and safety but the Storm Heralds were on the move and their fury would see them find a way.


	8. Chapter 8

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 8**

Charael's Justice had snapped a tread, the caterpillar tracks flailing loosely against its pitted and scarred hull. The Razorback sat forlornly upon the dusty hillside, as its crew hurriedly worked to make good its wounds. It wasn't the only one, all the Rhinos looked scorched and dented, their chassis blemished and holed by vicious acid marks. Even Ajax looked battered, his hide cragged by deep holes and his sarcophagus scoured bare. Only the Land Raider Pride of Lujan remained unviolated, its adamantium hull proof against such blasphemies.

Third Company had paused at the bottom of a short hill to regroup and effect repairs. The Company had formed a defensive perimeter as the drivers worked, while Scouts swept the surrounding area. The Company was some hundred miles from the city, following a fast and harrowing withdrawal from the undead revenants. The withdrawal had been fraught, packs of fiends leaping onto the vehicles, spewing acid even as they were blasted clear by bolters. By the Throne's grace no more casualties had been sustained but injuries were plentiful and Memnos had his hands full tending random burns.

Toran had his helm off, feeling the thin wind tussle his cropped hair. His gaze was fixed on the horizon where thick columns of smoke arose. That was the remains of Dunikin city, which was being firebombed by Thunderhawks, the Captain calling down obliteration as soon as they were clear. He wished there had been more he could have done, the Storm Heralds were the champions and defenders of mankind but that city was already lost, fire was the only salvation he could offer.

Behind him he heard Orath growl, "You're sure we're in the right place?"

Arvael's voice retorted, "This is the direction I divined, we must be close."

Toran knew what he meant, they were in the outskirts of a region of hills and valleys, the perfect place for a small force to hide and he judged if the Primaris were anywhere, they were here. He turned about and said, "We must search for the missing Space Marines but be wary, the revenants may have followed them here."

Standing before him were his advisors and Chaplain Furion who growled, "The part that concerns me is, who summoned them."

Toran inquired, "What do you mean?"

Furion scowled as he said, "I've seen enough to know curses and warp infestations don't just spring out of nothing. There is always a cult, or a sorcerer or a Daemon lurking in the shadows. Those fiends were conjured by someone or something."

Orath's looked battered in his scorched plate but he concurred, "He's right, there always some complete bastard who needs killing."

Toran nodded as he said, "Another problem to add to the list, but for now all we can do is continue the search and…"

Toran paused as he spied Arvael staring up at the hill and seemingly stopped breathing. Toran had become accustomed to this; the Librarian was scrying beyond the horizon, sending his mind's eye across the world. A second later the Librarian's mind returned to his body and shook his head as he dispelled the effects of his Psychic vision.

Toran knew any use of psychic ability was inherently dangerous but he could not deny the utility of this skill and asked, "What did you see?"

Arvael swallowed dryly then croaked, "Captain, we're not alone."

Persion snorted, "You mean the dead? Yes, we noticed that."

"No, I mean a living mind," Arvael corrected, "Well concealed but nearby and watching us."

Toran was surprised and he looked up at the hill searching for threats. His augmetic eye switched to thermal mode with a mental impulse, yet he detected nothing unusual. The Captain swept the slope but then said, "I see nothing."

Arvael shook his head and countered, "I'm sure I sensed something."

Toran knew better than to doubt the Librarian on these matters and made a decision, he faced the Company and said, "Chaplain Furion and Sergeant Orath you will keep the Initiates here and be ready for anything. I will take my command squad to the top and no, Furion, I won't send someone else to do this, I want to see the lay of the land for myself."

The Chaplain nodded in acknowledgement as Orath stomped off muttering under his breath. Toran strode away, headed up the hill with Arvael, Novak, Jediah and Persion in tow. They climbed swiftly, leaving the knot of blue Ceramite in a drab and dusty twilight world. As they climbed Toran took a moment to appreciate the simplicity of the excursion, a Captain's duty was intense and all-consuming, a hundred Astartes looked to him for leadership and he owed them everything in return. He had always been awed by the trust and respect the Marines gave him, though the staggering amount of paperwork a Captain had to process was something he could well have done without. For a moment he wondered if the legendary heroes of the Blood Angels, Black Templars and Ultramarines felt the same and the thought made him chuckle.

Novak looked over, his burnt face creasing in puzzlement as he asked, "Something amuses thee?"

"Nothing," Toran dismissed then changed the subject saying, "Can we expect the curse to have spread to the other cites?"

Arvael answered, "We must assume the contamination is global."

Jediah growled, "A world of the dead, this whole planet is tainted."

Persion agreed, "As soon as we get back to our ship we need to summon the Inquisition, Exterminatus is the only option."

Yet Toran stayed them saying, "Be not hasty, we still have to find answers, and discover who is responsible for this abomination."

Novak peered over the barren slope and asked, "Are we just planning to stroll to the top and stick our heads over?"

Toran looked up and saw the hill was indeed about to crest, which would leave anybody walking to the top perfectly silhouetted against the skyline. It was an obvious location for a trap and so was unthinkable, he glanced at the Librarian and asked, "Arvael, can you sense anything?"

The Librarian nodded and said, "Living thoughts are nearby, but the location is obscured somehow."

Toran pressed, "Hostile?"

"I sense wariness but no overt hostility," Arvael answered, "Alas my skills as a Telepath are functional at best, I can't get more accurate than that."

Novak grinned as he quipped, "Still have you ever considered a career as an Auspex?"

Toran ignored the Champion's jest ordered, "Codex pattern tango-nine. We shall split up, Arvael you're with me."

Following his command the party divided, Persion, Jediah and Novak donning their helms as they went right while Toran and Arvael went left. The Captain led the way around the circumference of the hill, avoiding the top where they would be exposed. He glanced back down the slope and saw the Third disappearing around the curve of the hill, of the Scout squads there was no sign, their camo-cloaks blending in perfectly.

Toran stepped around a large boulder and kept his hand near his bolter as he did so, yet he saw nothing but more slope and pressed on. Arvael followed in his wake and as did so he said, "Captain, have you considered that our original mission may have been rendered moot by the Curse? The emissary we were sent to meet may be dead already."

"Certainly a possibility," Toran answered, "Yet we should not speculate until we have more information. As the Primarch wrote a sound Theoretical depends upon the concise gathering of facts."

Arvael grimaced and said, "But still we must consider our options…"

He was cut off as Toran held up his fist, bring them to a halt. Before him the hill dropped away, leaving a sharp crag. He began to walk down the slope, leaving the sharp wall to his right. He walked down the incline until the cliff was about twenty feet taller than he was and then he abruptly stopped. Toran looked at the land ahead and decided this was the spot, it was plain and uninteresting, if he were laying an ambush this is where he would do it. The Captain put both hands on his hips and then loudly declared, "Enough games, you can come out now!"

His cry echoed over the hill until the wind smothered it entirely. All was still for a moment but then suddenly the land around them began to shift and move. Bumps and ridges in the ground rose up to take towering forms as dust and grit cascaded from flapping shrouds. A ceramite gauntlet emerged from each and grabbed the material, ripping free the camo-cloaks to reveal Transhuman giants beneath. Each one was taller than Toran and clad in variously hued plate and they bore long rifles in their hands, carefully screened against clogging grit. They were Primaris Marines, six of them and they surrounded the pair of Storm Heralds with gaping gun barrels.

One amongst them, in deep blue plates, jerked his bolt rifle up and from his helm issued a growling tone, "Halt and identify!"

Toran didn't look impressed as he replied, "First declare your name and authority."

"Don't talk back to me," the other hissed angrily.

Toran looked down his nose at the gun and uttered, "I'd be careful where you point that thing, you might get hurt."

The gathered Primaris did not seem pleased by that response and the leader snarled, "Do not test me, you walked into my ambush and I have you surrounded!"

Toran snorted, "Not much of an ambush, it was blatantly obvious in both planning and execution."

One of the other Primaris, in smeared yellow plates, barked, "Still caught you didn't it?"

"Please," Toran scoffed, "I ran better ambush drills as a Scout-Novice, your doctrines are amateurish."

The leader lifted his gun a fraction and barked, "You sound like someone who wants to be shot."

Toran stared levelly at the Primaris and growled, "You are welcome to try."

Suddenly Arvael spoke up, staring at a black-clad Primaris, as he uttered, "You… you are a son of Corax."

The black one's aim didn't waver an inch but he spat, "What of it?"

Arvael nodded and said, "Your skills are impressive, I barely felt your minds, even at such close proximity. Tell me, how did you screen your fellows?"

"Enough!" the leader spat angrily, "You are trying to stall us. Well it won't work, you are my prisoners and you will yield to my authority."

Toran smiled widely and uttered, "You seem to have misread the situation, I am not your prisoner at all. You see what I am is a distraction… so they could get behind you."

Suddenly there was a blur of movement above and three bulky figures dropped from the top of the cliff. The Primaris whipped about but the Storm Heralds were upon them before they could fire, hitting them hard from behind. Persion bowled over the yellow-clad Primaris and laid his Friction axe against his throat, forcing him to stillness. Meanwhile Jediah slammed into the black-clad one, slicing his Fractal edged short sword across the hamstrings so that the warrior collapsed, flopping on the ground.

Novak landed shield first, knocking over a red-clad Primaris and then stabbed his sword into the guts of another black-clad one. The Primaris roared as his Belisarian Furnace activated, sending him into a chemically incited burst of hyperactivity. He threw himself at the smaller Champion yet Novak twisted adroitly and his boot snaked out, tripping the raging maniac. The Primaris staggered and fuelled by his own ferocity slammed face first into the cliff wall.

Meanwhile Arvael's hands jerked and a blue-clad Primairis was lifted off the ground, hands grasping at his own throat as he struggled to breathe in the Telekinetic noose. This had taken barely a second yet the leader's eyes flickered and in that instant Toran moved. He knocked the barrel of the rifle to one side and as it fired a single round off into the distance he leant in and slammed his fist into the Primaris' faceplate. The warrior staggered but rallied in a heartbeat, yet he was brought up short by the point of Toran's sword, laid an inch from this larynx.

Toran saw the Primaris' threat was contained for now and he stared at their leader as he declared, "Let's try that again, I am Captain Toran, Storm Heralds Third Company and you are?"

The other's hands slowly lifted to his helm and slowly tugged it free, revealing a tired but surprisingly unscarred face. The Primaris glared down the length of the sword and growled, "I am Primaris Lieutenant Henrique Smyth, of the Unnumbered Sons."


	9. Chapter 9

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 9**

The standoff was accompanied by an awkward silence, broken only by the hollow whistling of the wind. Toran eyed his opponent, seeing the indignation and resentment all over this Smyth's face. This close Toran could see acid burns and pockmarks on the Primaris' plate, all of them patched up with repair paste in various spots. He knew exactly what had caused that, his own arm had a matching repair on it. Toran lift his eyebrow and asked, "I take it you have had a run in with the revenants?"

Smyth said nothing in response, staring resentfully down the length of the Sword of Thiel with his hands raised. Behind him the other Primaris had also gone silent and Toran knew they would not let slip a word to their captors… he wouldn't in their place. The Captain sighed in exasperation and declared, "I am going to make some educated guesses and you can decide whether or not to speak to me. You are Intercessors, sent to this world on a mission. You were surprised in the city by the undead and fought your way out."

Smyth's eyes narrowed a fraction and Toran knew he was on the right track, he dared to wonder, "You were sent here to meet someone, a rendezvous with another Chapter. You were escorting an emissary of Terra…"

Smyth finally growled, "We were ordered to meet with the Storm Heralds but there was no emissary, we are here to deliver you instructions directly from the hand of the Primarch."

Novak exclaimed in surprise, "You're the emissary?!"

"Not I," Smyth proclaimed, "That would be Captain Keiva."

Toran stared at him for a moment, then he pulled back his sword and said, "Very well, let's go."

"Wait, what?!" Smyth spluttered.

Toran sheathed his blade and said, "You were ordered to arrange a meeting between myself and this Kieva, so complete your mission. You will guide us to your base of operation where I can receive this missive from your Captain."

Smyth looked confused as he hissed, "You're letting us go?"

Toran cocked his head and explained, "Take me where I want to go and you shall complete your mission. Fight us and you will fail, make a choice."

Smyth's brows furrowed as he chewed on the argument but he could find no loopholes. Space Marines could not countenance failure, thus he seemed to be out of options. Reluctantly he nodded and the Primaris collected their guns, eyeing the Storm Heralds warily as he said, "Your logic is flawless, we must deliver you to Captain Kieva."

Jediah glared at them and hissed, "Try to double cross us and I will gut you, painfully and slowly."

Toran ignored the remark as he voxed Furion to bring the Company around to meet them and then confidently started walking down the hillside. Smyth and the others trailed in his wake but as they did so Novak asked, "Why are you all wearing different colours?"

Smyth glanced over, still with his helm off and said, "The Lord Commander is appalled by the divisions that have grown between Chapters in this dark age, they were never intended to be so isolated and he wishes the bloodlines to learn to work together once more. The Unnumbered Sons mix gene-lines in squads, Maral here was wrought from the gene-seed repositories of the XIXth Legion, Arkias is VIIth Legion stock, Nabalai is Xth and Sonatas IXth. Sergeant Yones and I descended from the XIIIth Legion."

"Then we are cousins," Toran commented, "The Storm Heralds too claim the Ultramarines as our founders."

"Pah," Sergeant Yones spat, "Mongrel off-shoots more like."

Jediah growled at that but Toran strode on, seeing the Third coming around the hillside. He paused at the bottom and waited for the column to arrive, enjoying the look on Smyth's face as the numbers of the Storm Heralds were made apparent. At the fore marched Furion, Orath and Ajax, the Terminator and his squad walking so Memnos could tend to the wounded inside Pride of Lujan's protective embrace.

They pulled up before their Captain and Furion made the sign of the Aquilla before saying, "I see you found somebody."

Toran replied confidently, "Chaplain Furion, Sergeant Orath and Honourable Ajax, meet Lieutenant Smyth and his Intercessors, they are to escort us to his camp."

"Better not be planning to lead us in circles," Orath spat eyeing the taller Primaris with hostility.

Smyth sniffed at that and countered, "That would be inefficient, these hills swarm with packs of walking dead, wasting time increases our chances of hostile encounters."

Suddenly Ajax leaned over and barked, "THESE ARE THE PRIMARIS EVERYONE HAS BEEN GOING ON ABOUT?"

Smyth's eyes went wide as he stared upwards at the pock-marked Dreadnought but his voice was steady as he replied, "We are."

Ajax glared down at him as he rumbled, "I THOUGHT YOU WOULD BE TALLER," and with that he stomped past, the rest of the Third following him. Smyth glanced at Toran incredulously who gave returned a look of forlorn resignation before setting off in the Dreadnought's wake.

They hastily moved to the front of the column, so Smyth could guide their path, and as they walked Toran asked, "Tell me, how did you come to be on this world?"

Smyth sighed wearily, "It's a long story."

Novak muttered, "We have time."

Smyth mused on it for a moment then explained, "We were on our way to the rendezvous when our Strike Cruiser, the Omnissiah's Bounty, fell into trouble. Something went wrong and we had to make an emergency translation, we were forced out of the warp in low orbit and the stress tore the ship apart. We hit the atmosphere and broke up, were forced to evacuate mid-reentry, while the ship crashed in our wake."

Furion spoke up then, "I think we saw the impact site, it left quite an impressive crater, not to mention all this radiation in the atmosphere."

Smyth nodded sadly, "Must have been the plasma reactors breaching, a shame, she was a good ship and barely a decade out of the yards."

Toran brought the conversation back on track asking, "So what happened next?"

Smyth gestured the Company to turn down a shallow valley and answered, "We regrouped in the largest city we could find. Barely half our forces made it to the surface and practically none of our equipment. Thankfully the local Governor was awed by us and supplied what he could; he even lent us his Astropath to send a distress call. We set up an encampment and tried to reform our ranks while we waited for someone to find us."

Furion inquired, "Then what?"

Smyth grimaced in remembrance as he uttered, "The Astropath couldn't make contact, Captain Kieva was most irate but every message was swallowed by the Empyrean. Then unexpectedly the Astropath died from some form of warp-induced haemorrhage."

Toran was hardly surprised, the lives of Astropaths were woefully short and he said, "It left you stranded."

Smyth's face fell as he said, "That was just the start, the orbital dock exploded without warning, we still don't know why. Fear and panic swept the streets as the debris rained down but the worst thing was a sickness started to spread in the city. It began as a shiver and terrible sweating, followed by a thirst that could not be quenched no matter how much the mortals drank. Their skin dried out and withered before our eyes, making them look like dried cadavers. People fought over water supplies, scrambling for the merest sip to quench their thirst, but nothing could relieve their cravings. It swept through the city like a wildfire; none of the mortals were spared. Then it began to manifest in the other settlements, springing up in every settlement simultaneously."

Arvael interjected, "Diseases do not spread in such manner."

"You don't have to tell us that," Sergeant Yones spat from the rear, "It defied every attempt to quarantine or cure."

Smyth face became forlorn as he continued, "They came to us, pleading for salvation. Crowds of people gathering outside our gate to beg for aid, but we could do nothing, we had no Apothecaries. Captain Kieva said we had to quarantine our base so we turned them away, the governor protested but Kieva threw him out head first. It was hard to watch, the people wept and they screamed, calling us every name under the sun as we forced them back at gunpoint. There was this one woman, she held up her dying baby before my eyes…"

Smyth's voice trailed off with a note of pain but Yones took up the tale, "The sickness worked fast, an all-consuming lethargy was the next symptom. The people lost all energy and vigour, they stopped working and playing, they stopped eating and drinking, then they stopped breathing. We watched a whole world lay down in the dust and wait to die, as if they were going to sleep."

Arvael mused, "Strange progression for a disease, how long did all this take?"

Smyth breathed in deeply then uttered, "From the first reported case to the last death… maybe twenty-one or twenty-two hours."

"A day?!" Furion gasped, "The curse killed this world in a day?"

Smyth nodded sadly and explained, "We had never seen anything like it, the bodies were everywhere. We didn't know what to do… then the dead started to move. They rose up and attacked us, spewing acidic filth that ripped our armour to shreds; we lost half-dozen warriors before we even knew what was happening."

"Cog bless Captain Kieva," Yones added, "He knew what to do; he rallied the defences and drove the nightmares out, then led an evacuation. You should have seen him that day, he was glorious, we'd never have survived without the Captain."

Smyth continued, "We withdrew on foot, with only the supplies we could carry. The dead followed though, dogging our footsteps. We lost them in these valleys and set up a small encampment from which to strike back, we've been fighting constantly for the last five days."

Toran thought upon this, the tale sounded harrowing but there were a few points that niggled and he asked, "You didn't explain, what happened to your ship in the first place? What compelled you to drop out of the Warp?"

"We don't know," Smyth confessed, "The records were lost and no Tech-priest survived. We have no way to tell what crippled the Omnissiah's Bounty."

Furion sounded suspicious as he asked, "And you have no clue as to who started the plague?"

Yones started in surprise and snapped, "What do you mean?"

Arvael stated coolly, "Such a curse could not have been natural, even Warp taint does not work so fast. Someone or something must have been orchestrating these events."

Yones snorted in dismissal, "You're being paranoid and connecting unrelated events. Crap happens, not everything is some grand conspiracy. The Omnnissiah teaches us that supposition without facts leads to fallacy."

Jediah spat back, "You've spent too much time hanging around the Mechanicus. After ten thousand years of fighting Chaos, you learn that there's nothing the archenemy won't do."

"Confirmation bias," Yones argued, "You're seeing what you want to see."

Yet Orath rebuked him, "Trust us on this. There's always some bastard lurking in the shadows, pulling the strings. The trick is to find them and kill them before you have to burn the damned planet."

Smyth paused for a moment and then inquired, "Such a person… would they have to be on the planet itself to do this?"

Arvael looked thoughtful for a moment then answered, "Not necessarily, the Warp is malleable where Sorcery is involved but they would require some connection to this world: a corrupted cult, a desecrated totem or a profane temple. With a conduit, they could have conjured the curse from several light years away, but no more."

Smyth went very quiet and Toran could see his mind chewing on ideas, clearly working through some suspicions. Toran determined to keep an eye upon this Smyth but changed the subject asking, "How much further to your base?"

Yones gestured to a narrow defile to their right and answered, "We're there."

Toran would have dismissed it as nothing but then he spied several fallen rocks and realised they had been moved to disguise the entrance and carefully positioned to create chokepoints. He knew sentries would be watching the Storm Heralds from nearby and he stopped the Company with a raised fist as he said, "You had better tell your guards that we are allies and to let us in."

Sullenly Jediah growled, "No tricks, remember I'll be here with my blade at your friend's throats if this is a trap."

Smyth nodded and said, "I had guessed that part but worry not, soon I shall introduce you to Captain Kieva personally."


	10. Chapter 10

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 10**

The voice was gravelly, worn by days of fighting and wearied by loss. It was the voice of someone who had suffered greatly yet was determined to endure and it said, "Explain to me again, how exactly did they capture you?"

Lieutenant Smyth refused to squirm before this commander but he felt a rush of prickly heat creep over the back of his neck as he answered, "They… they anticipated our ambush."

Smyth was standing before Captain Kieva who had a stern face and stubble upon his chin. His wide nose and tanned complexion spoke of his origin in the hive cities of Hy Brasil, not that the once proud province could be distinguished anymore from the endless urban blight that Terra had become. Like Smyth the Captain was a Primaris, born in the years of the Scouring and selected for the secret project but then left in stasis for ten millennia. Unlike Smyth he was clad in doughty Gravis armour, the thickest protection the new paradigm of warriors could boast. It was scorched and weathered by acid but in far better repair than the Lieutenant's own plate.

Smyth knew Kieva to be an ambitious officer, craving recognition and promotion. Unfortunately such laurels had been slow in coming, there were fifty thousand Unnumbered Sons operating at any given time, with losses and reassignments being constantly replaced from the sequestered vaults of Belisarius Cawl. Kieva's effort to rise to high command had thus far been thwarted, his only real claim to fame the capture of a squad of renegade Astartes, fleeing heresy in their home Chapter. Kieva was deeply frustrated by this and always on the lookout for ways to claw more respect.

Kieva's eyes narrowed and he said, "That was careless and sloppy on your part."

Smyth cleared his throat and repeated, "Be that as it may, the Storm Heralds are at our gate."

Kieva snapped angrily, "I dispatched you to uncover why Dunikin city was burning and you bring a hundred hostiles back to my door."

Smyth stared dead ahead and ventured, "Our orders were to make contact with them."

Kieva gaze was flinty as he probed, "You didn't tell them the rest?"

"Of course not," Smyth replied candidly, "I told them just enough to allay their suspicions. They only know that we are here to deliver them new orders from the Lord Commander."

Kieva glared irately and growled, "And what did you tell them of Megaro?"

"Not a word," Smyth replied briskly.

"Thank the Cog for small mercies," Kieva sighed in relief, "Still the question is, what are we to do with them."

Smyth looked about taking in the small section of the camp they were occupying. The surviving Primaris were entrenched in a small defile, hidden from the roaming packs of undead. Formed mostly of Intercessors and Reivers with a squad of Hellblasters and trio of Aggressors, they were taking what little rest they could before heading back out into the surrounding valleys. The wounded were laid up in a long line, it took a lot to put down a Space Marine and yet there were at least a score of injured who couldn't be moved. Kieva had claimed a small corner for himself, from where he could plan his strategies and from here they could see the dire straits of their forces. Smyth felt torn, of course Space Marines would fight to the last drop of blood but the conclusion was growing that this may be a war they couldn't win.

Smyth drew in a breath and proposed, "We could let them in."

Kieva looked indignant as he spat, "By the Red Sands, you must be mad."

Smyth too had spent years training on Mars, all Primaris had, and they had been taught the values of logic and reason. Patiently Smyth laid out his reasons, "Captain, there are roughly a hundred Astartes sitting outside our gate, armed and with heavy support. They have ammunition and supplies we badly need, not to mention numbers. If we combine our forces then we could turn the tide against the Warp-touched dead. Not to mention the Storm Heralds still hold Sergeant Yones and his squad hostage against our good behaviour."

Kieva snorted dismissively, "I didn't realise you were so soft."

Them Smyth quietly added, "And they have an Apothecary with them."

Kieva's eyes instantly darted to the lines of wounded, lying broken and useless on the ground. Their force had lost its healers and all other specialists so there had been no one left to care for the cripples. Kieva's expression mellowed slightly and then he reluctantly activated his vox and said, "Perimeter guards, stand down. Allow the Storm Heralds entry to the camp."

At the narrowest point of the defile the Reivers on guard stood aside to allow a narrow line of ceramite clad warriors entrance. They came in single file, weapons held tight as they looked about. Quickly they spread out, clearly wary of ambushes but soon they soon filled the gorge with their numbers. There was an awkward moment when their vehicles tried to enter, but the Reivers moved the heavy boulders aside and so the Rhinos and other machines could pass. With a hundred Astartes and their war machines added the defile suddenly felt very cramped indeed, the Dreadnought alone seeming to fill more space than it should.

Kieva cocked an eyebrow and remarked, "Gaudy peacocks, aren't they?"

Smyth couldn't help but agree, like all old Astartes the Storm Herald delighted in awarding themselves laurels, their plates being festooned with campaign badges and heraldic insignia. The Primaris by comparison favoured cleaner lines and simple rank badges that were effective and efficient.

Smyth had thought the Storm Herald's Captain to be an arrogant fop, until Toran had comprehensively outmanoeuvred his ambush. Then Smyth spied the squad of Terminators and the Land Raider and a slightly jealous impulse surfaced, Primaris Marines had not been favoured with such mighty artefacts, partly because they had newer gear and partly because the older Chapters attached to the Crusade had threatened to withdraw entirely should such jealously guarded relics be gifted to the newer Primaris.

Smyth spied the Librarian in their midst and the sight reminded him of something important. As the Storm Heralds settled in Smyth turned to Kieva and said, "Captain, there is another matter to discuss. Ever since we came to Inerus we have been dogged by calamity, the loss of the ship, the explosion of the orbital dock and the walking dead. Do you not see some connection between these events?"

Kieva frowned as he replied, "I see tragedies and loss but such is the state of the galaxy since the Noctis Aeterna. Chaos waxes strong and disasters blossom on all sides."

Smyth shook his head and said, "So close together? So specifically aimed at us? I believe this is more than coincidence."

"Warp-taint," Kieva stated firmly, "Immaterial energies break through the veil of reality and wreak havoc upon this world."

"What if it's more?" Smyth wondered, "What if there is a strategy at play? What if this is the work of an individual?"

Kieva's glared at the Lieutenant as he probed, "What ideas have the Storm Heralds put in your head?"

Smyth chewed his lip for a moment then confessed, "I spoke with their Librarian and he told me Sorceries can be performed from far way, in the right circumstances."

Kieva sighed loudly and uttered, "Megaro, this is about Megaro."

Smyth nodded as he said, "We have had that zealot with us for years now and still don't know his schemes."

"I will not have this argument again," Kieva declared, "I know you don't trust him but Megaro and his band are under lock and key. I have them under control, they are watched by the Custodian Guard themselves and no Astartes can match one of the Emperor's Companions. Your suspicions are unfounded, you should leave it alone."

Smyth disagreed, "But we still don't…"

"I said leave it," Kieva snapped, "Now say not a word of this, here comes their officers. Follow my lead and don't contradict me."

Smyth saw the Storm Herald's Captain closing, his ragged red cloak hanging limply and his helm doffed to reveal his augmetic eye. Beside him came the Chaplain in the jagged plate, as tall as Smyth himself and looking fierce under his skull-helm. With them came Sergeant Yones and his Intercessors, looking unharmed, who peeled off and returned to the ranks. The party stopped and the Captain bowed in the traditional manner before declaring, "Captain Kieva I presume? Greetings, I am Captain Toran of Third Company and this is my second, Chaplain Furion."

Kieva couldn't bow in his bulky plate but he nodded his head and said, "Hail, your arrival was most unexpected."

Toran replied calmly, "We were looking for you; our mission was to rendezvous with you."

Kieva held up a hand and stated, "Before we start our discussions, we have wounded in pain and no healers among us."

Toran accepted this and said, "We are pleased to offer our aid: Apothecary Memnos! Your skills are required."

A white-clad Astartes hurried over to the wounded and as he set to work Furion spoke up, "We have been briefed on your current situation but we have yet to hear to hear your purpose in coming to this world. What is this missive you bear for our Chapter?"

Kieva glanced at Smyth for a second but then declared, "The Lord Commander has need of your Chapter, more specifically the warp route you are assigned to guard."

A look of awe flashed over Toran's face at the mention of the Imperial Regent but he covered it quickly and said, "We are eager to offer any assistance we can to the Primarch."

Kieva elaborated, "The situation in the galaxy is shifting in the Imperium's favour. Segmentum Solar has been stabilised, the Indomitus Crusade now seeks to expand to other Segmentums. The main crusade fleet is to sail into the heart of Tempestus, but the only navigable route is the Saint Karyl Trail. The bulk of the Crusade will soon be passing near to your Chapter's homeworld and preparations must be made."

"The Primarch is coming?!" Toran exclaimed excitedly.

"Indeed," Kieva confirmed, "I have been commanded to liaise with your Chapter. You are responsible for keeping this region secure and by the authority of the Lord Commander Imperial; you are hereby ordered to ensure the Crusade has a clear run to the fleet dockyards of Tectum."

"Tectum?" Furion inquired, "Why sail to the Naval headquarters?"

Smyth stepped in and explained, "The Crusade has suffered grievous casualties, not one ship in the fleet is undamaged. Smaller ships can be exchanged for sector-fleet assets but the largest and most potent battleships are in a sorry state. Before we can advance to the next phase, the fleet must undergo a refit. Thus the Lord Commander has decided the Indomitus Crusade will pause for three weeks at Tectum, to make good its wounds."

Toran and Furion shared a glance and then the Captain said, "Three weeks is… ambitious. I doubt the docks can maintain so demanding a schedule."

Kieva smiled as he remarked, "The Primarch's genius for logistics is remarkable, if he says it can be done in three weeks then it will be done to the exact hour he has calculated."

Furion's helm nodded but then he asked, "What are the Crusade's key objectives in Segmentum Tempestus?"

"Classified," Kieva curtly answered, "Your concern is merely to provide safe passage."

"Very well," Toran stated, "Our first step will be to leave this planet. I have a ship in orbit, let me call down Thunderhawks and we depart immediately…"

But then Kieva spat, "We're not going anywhere."

Smyth started in surprise and exclaimed, "We're not?"

Kieva glared at him but said, "The nightmares haunting this world are not yet dealt with. I will not withdraw until they are ground into dust."

Smyth was stunned to hear that but kept his mouth shut; it was not his place to question the Captain before outsiders. Yet Toran countered, "With respect there are millions of foes here and even together we number less than two hundred warriors. A campaign of attrition can only end one way."

Furion added, "There are no strategic resources or tactically valuable assets here, there is nothing worth fighting over. Let us withdraw and call for an Exterminatus, the Mechanicus can send reclamation parties if they want to resume mining operations."

Yet Kieva's nose curled in disgust and he spat, "These horrors have claimed the lives of my kin, they have shed our blood and I will have recompense. You flee if you wish; I will stay and fight until I have claimed a victory worthy of the Omnissiah."

Smyth's hearts fell, as he realised the Kieva's thirst for recognition was overriding his good sense. It was a reckless blunder but the Lieutenant could say nothing as Kieva turned and strode away, leaving everybody dumbfounded in his wake.


	11. Chapter 11

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 11**

In the defile the two camps of Transhumans warily stepped around each other. Astartes and Primaris, two different orders of beings yet for now forced to share this meagre bastion. Conditions were cramped, the gorge being barely big enough to fit all the vehicles and the squads. Space Marines of any order were too disciplined to whine but the tension between them was obvious in the way they held their weapons and constantly checked the fire angles of their counterparts.

In that medley of mistrust and suspicion, Librarian Arvael was extending his psychic senses outwards, invisibly scanning the area and searching for threats. His widened perspective took in the whole camp, from the perimeter guards to Honourable Ajax, who was unsubtly pointing his assault cannon a single degree from their hosts. A shallow telepathic scan revealed that the Unnumbered Sons were wary and on guard, this was to be expected, in his experience Astartes and Primaris hardly worked well together. Yet there was more than pride in their minds, they were hiding many secrets, keeping their confidences even in their hearts of hearts. But what they could not hide was their resentment of the Storm Heralds, for it waxed strong and even a passive scan told Arvael that this new breed expected Primaris Marines to replace the older type of Space Marines entirely. As far as they were concerned the Storm Heralds were obsolete, born from a dying breed that would inevitably pass into the mists of history.

Arvael mentally recited a mantra of stillness to quash a flush of irritation and returned to his body, feeling the weight of his bones settle upon his spirit. There was always a moment of to reluctance to this, the urge to forever remain a free spirit a temptation that never faded, yet he persisted. Discipline and focus were mandatory for a Librarian; a Psyker who flaunted his powers was a danger to himself and everyone around him. Arvael knew that all too well, for he had killed others of his kind who had failed the test. When it came the Warp empathy and mercy were weaknesses that must be ruthlessly excised.

Arvael blinked as the world became dull and mundane before eyes, his awareness shrinking to his immediate surroundings. He found himself standing by the Pride of Lujan, along with Sergeant Orath and the Command Squad. Captain Toran and Furion were discoursing with Kieva while the rest were waiting to hear the results. Meanwhile Apothecary Memnos was tending to the Primaris' injured, treating them with all due diligence despite their genetic differences. Other Primaris watched him with mistrusting eyes but the Apothecary ignored them, he would extend to his patients his utmost effort for his shame would allow him to do no less.

Suddenly Arvael became aware that Jediah was staring at a knot of Unnumbered Sons, the Reivers, if Arvael remembered correctly. They wore light plate, somewhere between scout-carapaces and full power armour. They were glaring fiercely over half-masks, adorned with grinning skulls and trying to look intimidating. Unfortunately Jediah had his helm off, revealing patchworked scars, skin grafts and replaced teeth that made him look far more ferocious by comparison.

The largest Reiver stared icily and hissed, "What are you looking at?"

Jediah's lips drew back as he growled, "Not much."

The Reiver drew himself up and uttered, "Are you challenging me?"

"No," Jediah stated coldly, "It wouldn't be challenging at all."

The rest of the Reivers tensed, hands inches from their knives but then Novak spoke up loudly, "Jediah, what did the Chaplain tell you about playing with your food?"

Persion added, "Yes, we were ordered to work with them, not eat their brains."

The Reiver's eyes narrowed but then he said, "Come on, these ones aren't worth our time." With that the Primaris mooched off, not fast enough to imply they were retreating but rather that they simply had somewhere better to be right now. Arvael sighed to himself, this was hardly a good start but thousands of years of tradition and pride were butting up against new ideas and concepts, friction was inevitable.

Beside him Orath growled, "How Frakking long is this going to take?"

Arvael saw the Terminator impatiently flexing his grip on his Thunder hammer but calmly stated, "It will take as long as it takes."

"Librarians, always with the mystic proclamations," Orath spat, "Why don't you just reach into their heads and make them comply?"

Arvael glared at him and said, "One: because it violates every tenant of the Librarius. To use my gifts to impose my will upon another is Heresy; the Warp must never be permitted to rule the hearts of men. And two: because I can't, my telepathy skills are basic, telekinesis is more my forte."

Novak dared to venture, "But can't you at least poke about in their minds and find out what they're thinking?"

"Not without a deep probe," Arvael said, "Which would become obvious to all when they started having seizures."

Persion muttered, "Don't encourage him, do we really want a Psyker feeling free to go rummaging about in our minds?"

That shut everybody up, their intolerance for the Warp making them loathe of the very idea. Long minutes passed in sullen silence as they watched the camp go about its business but then at last Toran, Furion and Smyth appeared. The Captain marched over to them and briskly announced, "We have a problem."

Wearily Novak asked, "They won't work with us?"

"Not exactly," Furion countered, "These Unnumbered Sons were sent to gain our aid, but the problem is Kieva won't leave until he's destroyed the undead fiends."

Persion sounded shocked as he exclaimed, "But that will take months!"

Lieutenant Smyth looked abashed as he explained, "The Captain is zealous and we Primaris must consider our pride. We have lost many of our own and we can't leave until we balance that equation."

Confused looks crept onto faces but Arvael ventured, "It is a matter of honour."

Smyth mused for a moment then concurred, "I suppose that is how you would see it. Duty demands that we have to claim at least one real victory before we can leave or our fallen will have died for nothing."

Heads nodded all around at the assertion, if there was one thing Astartes understood it was the principles of duty and honour, their identity was founded upon that bedrock. Death was nothing to Space Marines when there was a principle to fight for. Furion looked thoughtful as he said, "Then we must provide Kieva with a victory, fast, before we are ground down by attrition."

Yet Toran demurred, "Give him time to cool down, rushing straight back in would put Kieva's guard up and he'd refuse us simply out of stubbornness. Let us assess our situation and assets first. Smyth, may I ask you for a tour of your camp?"

Smyth blinked in surprise and said, "Certainly, follow me."

The group headed out, as Smyth began to point out the defences and supplies, which were scant. The Lieutenant had claimed the Primaris had fled with only the supplies they could carry and it showed. He paused by a line of bolt rifles, laid out on a tarpaulin and said, "The weapons of our lost, we are reduced to scavenging ammo and replacement parts. A sorry state of affairs for such noble weapons, but we had no choice."

It was galling seeing devoted weapons laid low, even Arvael was disturbed by the short shrift they had been given. Without being asked Furion took a censer of incense from his belt and began sprinkling the weapons as he chanted the Litany of Disassembly, blessing the Machine Spirits and thanking them for their sacrifice. Normally a Techmarine would perform the sacraments but in the field a Chaplain would do. Smyth watched from the side, his eyes quietly approving, it seemed the Martian training of the Primaris extended to the doctrines of the Cult Mechanicus.

Arvael waited until the rite was concluded then turned to Smyth and asked, "Tell us more of yourselves, we wish to know the character of the warriors we shall fight alongside."

"I…" Smyth started, "I wouldn't know where to start."

Novak prompted him, "Tell us of Ultramar, what is it like?"

"I don't know," Smyth replied, "I've never been there."

Persion frowned and said, "I thought you were an Ultramarine?"

"Genetically," Smyth corrected him, "But I was born on Terra, many of us were."

Toran looked confused and said, "I don't understand."

Smyth sighed loudly, "So much is lost, so much has been erased and your records of the Second Founding are mostly myths and outright fabrications. You seem to think Guilliman gave an order and the Legions were happy to be split-up, but it wasn't like that at all. The Heresy had ravaged the Legions and left them reeling; restoring them to their old size was beyond the crippled Imperium's capabilities. Dividing the Space Marines into more easily managed Chapters was as much a recognition of reality as anything else."

Toran asked, "And the Primaris project?"

"It must seem so radical to you," Smyth muttered, "And of course it was top-secret and highly classified, but when they began to select recruits it seemed almost… natural."

Arvael frowned and said, "I do not follow."

Smyth looked into the distance as he said, "It was another age, the fire of the Heresy was guttering out and the Traitor Legions were in full retreat. There was finally time to take stock and think about what was to come next. Roboute Guilliman spoke publically that too many mistakes had been made, that in the mad rush for conquest the Great Crusade had overlooked fundamental flaws in the genetic and psychological makeup of the Legions. He was determined to correct those mistakes and under his leadership we thought we could build something better. The Primaris project was a central pillar of that doctrine; we would refine the old gene-tech and advance the Emperor's great work to its logical conclusion. We were happy to be included, we told ourselves the Imperium would be better than it was before and so too would the Space Marines… how naive of us."

Persion frowned as he said, "So why recruit Terrans for the project?"

Smyth said sadly, "It was thought a higher proportion of Terrans would instil loyalty, that we would be more trustworthy than barbarians from the colonies."

Arvael saw the pain in his eyes and pressed, "Where did it go wrong?"

Smyth's eyes darkened, "The project had barely begun its experimental phase but word came down that Guilliman had hared off to fight Fulgrim, only to be cut down and our dream died with him. He had led the Imperium through its restoration but without his guidance, it all fell apart. None of the other Primarchs could match his vision, not in matters of governance and organisation and without him the faint hope we had nurtured withered on the vine."

Arvael sensed his kin bristle at the implied criticism of the Primarch and he moved the conversation forward by saying, "Then the High Lords seized power."

"Lesser men, fools and self-serving leaches," Smyth spat angrily, "They wanted to rewrite history, to cover up the flawed origins of Terra's rule. The very idea that the Imperium could make a mistake, that the Great Crusade had been less than perfect, undermined their authority. They wanted an immaculate chronicle and we became an inconvenience. So they rewrote the records to suit their tastes and any crushed any attempt to change the established order, the Primaris Project was to be erased and all of us euthanized."

Novak cocked his head and remarked, "You don't look dead."

Smyth nodded as he explained, "Belisarius Cawl refused to abandon his vision, he was protected by Guilliman's personal writ and none of those clerks could countermand such authority. In the end they agreed to let him seal us away in stasis and then did their very best to forget we ever existed, as long they didn't have to deal with us they didn't care what experiments Cawl continued to run."

"Fascinating," Arvael said, "I thank you for your candour."

Toran concurred, "Yes thank you, but now let us deal with the present. We shall talk to Kieva again and see if there is a way out of this thorny dilemma."


	12. Chapter 12

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 12**

"Let me go first," Smyth urged, "I will speak to Captain Kieva and convince him to meet with you."

"Very well," Toran replied, "Do what you must, but we cannot tarry too long."

Smyth nodded and walked off, leaving the Storm Heralds behind as he walked across the camp. As he made his way over he passed the various squads, collecting their meagre supplies and readying themselves for the next fight. He could see the determination and resolve in their eyes but also a weariness. They had fought frantically for the last five days and knew all too well the odds set against them, expectations of victory were low. Yet Kieva was their Captain, they had to trust he knew what he was doing and obey, at least in theory.

Smyth was surprised when Sergeant Yones peeled off from his squad and came to walk beside him. The Intercessor hefted his bolt rifle and queried, "Are you going to try to butter up Keiva?"

"Do what?" Smyth asked with a frown.

Yones replied candidly "I heard one of the Storm Heralds saying the phrase and I like it. More phlegmy than saying greasing the cogs."

Smyth shook his head, sometimes Yones could be rather impressionable. Despite being a Sergeant Yones was an open and welcoming soul, quite at odds with the ruthless demeanour he adopted in war. Unfortunately he was exactly right, Smyth was trying to sway Kieva's mind. The Lieutenant was under no delusions of their status and knew that without support the Unnumbered Sons contingent was doomed, they had no other option than to work with the Storm Heralds.

Smyth was about to reach Kieva's isolated command post, a generous term for such a drab little corner, and said, "I shall speak to the Captain and see if some common ground can be found with our guests."

"I'll come too," Yones asserted, "You'll need more than your good looks to pull this off."

Smyth rolled his eyes at his old friend's needling but smothered his expression as he reached the Captain himself. Kieva was stood facing the rock wall, into which he had etched a crude map of the surrounding hills and valleys. His eyes were darting from section to section, assessing the geography and running scenarios in his head. The Captain seemed distracted yet he was aware enough to notice them coming and said, "What is it?"

Smyth made the sign of the Cog and said, "Captain, we wish to inquire as to your intent."

Kieva pointed his right hand at a narrow valley, the other being encased in the heft of his bolt storm gauntlet and said, "This terrain would be suitable for an ambush, we could trap a large number of the walking dead in there and bury them in rocks."

Smyth hesitated then murmured, "With respect, is this course of action the most efficient use of our resources?"

Kieva paused in his deliberations then turned about, the bulk of his Gravis armour meaning he had to bodily face the pair as he spat, "Are you questioning me?"

Smyth bit down on a terse retort and carefully said, "Captain, as we have no other officers I serve as your second. It is my duty to provide you with alternatives and to speak for the squads."

"Stop mincing words," Kieva growled, "Say what you mean."

Yones piped up then uttering, "He's saying we're making a mistake fighting on alone."

Kieva's eyes narrowed and he hissed, "Whose side are you two on?"

Smyth rallied as he spat, "I am on the side of Terra and Mars! We are fighting a war we can't win, not on our own. We are down to our last dregs of ammunition and explosives, our wounded need evacuation and we have willing allies that we are ignoring. Error-shunt-abort, we can't even get off this planet without aid."

Kieva glared at them for long moments but then his eyes lowered and he sighed, "I agree."

Smyth blinked in surprise, he had certainly not been expecting that response and blurted, "You do?!"

Kieva exhaled loudly then uttered, "I am not blind nor a prig-headed fool. I know how perilous our situation is, but neither can I abort our course of action. We have to stay and fight, if we abandon our pride then what are we? The galaxy lies in ashes and what else is left for us in this benighted age save our pride?"

Smyth had never heard Kieva talk this way and said, "Captain, we do face a terrible challenge, to save an entire galaxy, but we are equal to the task. We can turn the tide against the darkness, we can still do what we were made for; build a better future for mankind."

Kieva shook his head and said, "Even after all this time you still cling to hope, I forget what that was like.

It was Yones' turn to start in surprise and he said, "You don't believe the Indomitus Crusade can win?"

Kieva sighed, "Don't be obtuse, of course it can. Guilliman is perhaps the only being the galaxy who could change the course of history. But you and me, the lowly foot soldiers, what is there for the likes of us? If we don't die on some minor battlefield we will be palmed off to some insignificant Chapter as reinforcements. At the very best we could be given to an all-new Primaris Chapter only to be left in the Crusade's wake to be forgotten."

Smyth started forward and pleaded, "Captain, you can't lose faith."

Kieva seemed lost in his memories as he said, "When they recruited us for the Primaris project the future was so bright, the Imperium was getting back to what it should have been, but we awoke to a morbid nightmare. When they opened our stasis tubes I couldn't believe what was awaiting us. Do you remember what it was like?"

Yones interjected, "I remember feeling as weak as a pup, barely able to stand. Save for the occasional experimental implantation I hadn't seen daylight in ten millennia."

Smyth nodded sadly, "When the adepts told me the truth I scarcely believed them. Had they said we were in stasis a century I would have thought it a long time, a thousand years and I would have been flabbergasted but ten millennia? The words made no sense to me, that amount of time was a scale I could not comprehend, they might as well have been talking gibberish."

Kieva looked downfallen as he said, "The time frame was shocking but worse was the state of the Imperium. Ignorance and superstition, misery and suffering, the galaxy we knew was dead and this was a mockery of the future we had envisioned. An empire where men eke out lives of no consequence, enslaved to an uncaring and callous tyranny. I thought I was going to achieve great things with my life, to make my mark on the galaxy, but how could anyone suffer to live like this? There is no glory among these stars, only carnage and slaughter and the glee of mocking gods."

Smyth countered that saying, "But it's not too late, we can still make a difference."

Kieva looked sad as he murmured, "I thought that if I could rise to high command then I could affect the course of things, I could make a mark on the galaxy that would stand the test of time. Yet here we are, a hardscrabble world and a nothing war but at least it's ours and we will fight it."

Smyth cleared this throat and said, "With respect Captain, what if we could do more than fight this war. What if we could win it?"

Kieva eyeballed him for a long moment, then sighed, "There's that hope again, you can't let it go, can you? Very well, summon the Storm Heralds and I will hear what they have to say, but I doubt it will lead anywhere. And speak nothing of the other matter: of Megaro."

Smyth sighed in relief and turned to wave Toran and Furion over, the pair closed rapidly and the Storm Heralds bowed to Kieva. The Captains eyed each other and then Toran said, "My thanks for agreeing to speak to us again."

Kieva peered down his nose at his shorter counterpart and said, "It is against my better judgement but Smyth here seems to think you might be able to contribute something."

Toran accepted this and asked, "First we must assess the strategic situation, I take it this is the bulk of your forces?"

Kieva replied levelly, "I have a few Reiver squads patrolling the perimeter but otherwise yes."

Toran then asked, "And what has your strategy been?"

Keiva turned to the map on the wall and said, "The undead outnumber us greatly but the valleys and hills forced them to divide their host. The real issue is the multitudes seem to sense when they are under attack, the undead have some means of communicating we can't discern and if we linger anywhere they swarm over us. Thus we have adopted a hit and run strategy, taking them on in smaller packs and overwhelming them, then withdrawing before they can respond. We have culled considerable numbers but sadly run low on ammunition."

Smyth saw Toran's one organic eye sweeping the map, calculating the possibilities. The officer drew in a breath and said, "With the resources you had it was the best strategy but your forces are depleted and you can't sustain these tactics any longer."

Kieva sneered, "What would you suggest instead: retreating with our tails tucked between our legs? Running away and abandoning the fight?"

Toran shook his head and said, "No, I do not counsel cowardice, merely changing your tactics."

Kieva bristled and spat, "I have calculated this is the optimal course of action!"

Furion stepped in then to say, "These are the tactics of a conqueror, a man who is accustomed to having vast armies at his back and endless resources to call upon. You are fighting as if you are still part of a Crusade, with a huge host coming to reinforce you. You are too accustomed to being in the position of strength and have never had to fight a war against a superior opponent."

Smyth saw Kieva's eyes harden and he growled, "If all you have to offer are insults then we are done here."

Toran however stepped in saying, "Please do not misunderstand us, we are trying to help you. This is me extending the hand of friendship. We are not trying to undermine you or steal your triumph; we are trying to help you achieve victory."

Smyth dared to step in and say, "For ten millennia Astartes such as these have held the line against Chaos. Every battle has been impossible, every opponent has been stronger, faster and more deadly than they, yet somehow they are still here. We need such tenacity; we need to know how to fight at a disadvantage."

Kieva's eyes narrowed and he growled, "My patience is growing thin; tell me this wisdom of the ages."

Toran explained, "You must learn to take every advantage you can get and seize any edge you can find. Do not hesitate to exploit your opponent's weaknesses and neutralise their strengths. The undead's numbers are also an opportunity, if you can but turn that against them. You have weapons at your disposal you are not using, arsenals you are not considering in your strategy, if you wish to win then you must stop holding back."

Kieva didn't look impressed as he said, "Hardly a revelation, every recruit is told much the same thing."

Toran pressed, "Then consider that you are letting your enemy set the terms of the engagement, you are reacting instead of acting. You must be the one to set the conditions of the fight, to make them respond to your initiative."

"How?" Kieva growled, "By handing over my command to your authority?"

"No," Toran answered, "This is your fight and it is right that you should lead. What I offer to you is the means to win it."

Kieva went silent and everybody waited to see what he would say. Smyth was on tenterhooks, holding his breath as his commander turned the matter over and over and he honestly could not say what decision the Captain would come to. Then Kieva slowly drew in a breath and at last said, "Tell me more."


	13. Chapter 13

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 13**

The transport rocked under him, its treads grinding the soft dirt to ash. The noise of its engines filled the air, a low roar that sounded in the ears like the growl of a bestial carnivore. It was a jarring experience, the sensation of moving in a tracked machine being eerily unfamiliar to one who was accustomed to the smoothness of a Repulsor's anti-gravs.

Lieutenant Smyth felt the vibrations running up his armoured legs, the jarring making his teeth rattle. He was currently standing in the cupola of a Razorback transport, watching the world flash past as the machine rolled along. Charael's Justice, it was called, Smyth didn't know who that was supposed to be but he was glad of the firepower regardless. His transport was part of a convoy of similar vehicles, headed through a broad valley between two shallow hills. The wind gusted over his helm, causing his autosenses to flash cautionary drag factors before his eyes, and the dust billowing in their wake rose high into the gloomy sky.

Smyth took a moment to look at the other vehicles, seeing the progress they had made. Rhino transports were spread out in two lines of five, forming a knot of mutual defence. Their roof hatches were open, allowing the occupants to fire from within but standing upon their exterior hulls were squads of Intercessors, Reivers and Hellblasters. It was in total defiance of prescribed doctrines, more akin to the antics of the Fenrisians, but the transports were filled with Storm Heralds so the Unnumbered Sons overlooked the indignity and made do.

One place ahead of him, at the very front of the charge, the Land Raider Pride of Lujan roared along with Captain Kieva standing proudly on its roof. His boots were mag-locked to the hull and his stance was wide to compensate for the rocking of the machine. Despite that he cut a magnificent sight, his Powered Gauntlet crackling on his left arm and a shining energy sword gripped in his right hand. They may be riding upon Storm Herald vehicles but Kieva was in charge, Toran having stepped back in respect, this was the Primaris' battle and it was essential that they be the ones to win it.

Nearby Dreadnought Ajax marched, keeping pace with surprising speed, a mark of the superior systems of the ancient Contemptor design. Finally at the back a Predator, Scourge of Heretics, trundled along, its turret sweeping back and forth and its heavy bolters reversed to cover the rear. The convoy was moving rapidly, covering the valley floor in minutes. They were fast and powerful, a force that could have smashed its way out of the region with ease but they weren't moving away from the battlefield, instead they were driving deeper into the kill zone.

From the Rhino adjacent to him Sergeant Yones called over, "Cawl told us these things are obsolete but actually they aren't bad!"

Smyth couldn't help but grin as he saw Yones gripping the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter but he yelled back, "Simple and hard to break, suits you perfectly!"

Yones laughed as he cried, "Give me a Repulsor any day but these will do in a pinch!"

Their comradery was cut off as Captain Kieva shouted over the vox, "Contact ahead! Ready weapons but single shot only, conserve ammo!"

Smyth's head twisted to the fore and he spied a gaggle of revenants, limping along the valley floor. They were a ragged bunch of mismatched individuals, with no commonality between them. There were young men and elderly women, penniless beggars alongside rich merchants, even a few industrial labourers. Yet all of them were united in death, their flesh withered and dried, wrapped tightly around their bones to make them look like walking skeletons. Their cheeks were sunken and their hair falling out, but in their eyes burned the light of the Warp, a filthy and gangrenous radiance that spoke of the inevitability of entropy and the rot of the universe.

The revenants saw them coming and screeched loudly as they surged forward, running at the oncoming vehicles with arms outstretched. Smyth's hatred surged at the sight, such corruption had swamped the galaxy and laid waste countless worlds. Chaos had robbed him of his life, of his dreams and his future. Their existence was an offence to the logical and ordered universe espoused by the Omnissiah and his every instinct screamed at him to eradicate this filth. Smyth lifted his bolt rifle, feeling the heft of the elongated barrel in his hands. The drum magazine rattled half-empty but it was his last one and he had no replacements to hand.

He drew the weapon up, seeing a matching icon appear in his helm's display and settled the reticule over the desiccated corpse of an elderly lady. The Razorback bucked under him as it barrelled along but he compensated smoothly and then he pulled the trigger. The rifle shuddered in his grip as a single bolt discharged, soaring over the distance to hit the target right in the head. The skull exploded upon impact, spraying withered brains over the dry ground and the revenant fell limp, its unholy existence cut short.

From the other vehicles came more shots, each one taking down a fiend with Transhuman precision. In one salvo the pack of undead were decimated, barely a few surviving the destruction to press on. Smyth's finger tightened again but Captain Kieva waved his sword and shouted, "Hold fire, we need survivors!"

Smyth obeyed, though it galled him to do so. The convoy raced at the few surviving revenants then flashed by, not even slowing down as they roared towards the valley's end. The pack of fiends were left to mill in the convoy's wake, screeching loudly as they struggled to catch up. The convoy however ignored them, emerging from between the two hills onto a narrow plain.

As they raced onward Yones hollered, "That will put the spark up them!"

"Good," Smyth yelled back, "We want them to chase us!"

Onwards the convoy rolled, rising and falling as the hills and valleys came and went. Smyth kept a sharp eye out, searching for more fiends and as they drove along and he was sure he detected movement. Tiny darting glimpses that signalled the revenants were trying to box in the Space Marines. There could be no doubt that the undead had some means of communicating with each other, maybe psychic, maybe not. Yet the implications troubled him, there was more than mindless frenzy at work here, there was a strategy at play. Somewhere, somehow, a mind was directing these fiends.

Smyth was shaken from his reverie as the convoy crested a hill and headed down a long slope. Yet at the bottom seethed a mass of undead, hundreds of hissing corpses, waiting to greet them. Smyth felt the spike of hyper-adrenaline as his physiology reacted to the danger, priming him for combat. Time slowed and in his ears Kieva's voice sounded oddly drawn out as he shouted, "This is it, weapons free! Stop for nothing and show no mercy, for Terra and for Mars!"

"Terra and Mars!" The Unnumbered Sons shouted and then their guns let loose their fury. The leading edge of the packed undead exploded, their bodies torn apart by sheer weight of fire, but so tightly crammed were they that those behind pushed them forwards like ablative shields. Another volley of bolts hammered home but these were absorbed by the limp mass of shredded flesh and the remaining packs raced into melee range undamaged. They threw themselves at the grinding tanks, grasping onto handholds and jutting plates as they began to climb the sides of the racing vehicles.

The Rhinos kept going, crushing bodies under their treads as they roared forward. Undead horrors fell in swathes before their bulk but ever more pressed in, uncaring for losses as they grasped at the hulls with withered hands. They were met with sprays of heavy bolter fire from sponson mounts and thunderous retorts of autocannons, mixed with the snap-hiss of Lascannons but the masses of undead piled on, swarming in from all directions.

In the midst of the carnage Smyth fended off a forest of grasping hands, knocking undead revenants off the Razorback as fast as he could, while the heavy bolters thundered behind him. He lashed out with the butt of his bolt rifle and smashed in a rising skull then swung his fist at a decaying face emerging over the rim. Unfortunately more fiends were climbing up all around him and he saw several opening their maws, ready to spew acid. The Lieutenant pulled his rifle up and grabbed the trigger, sending out a torrent of bolt rounds. He swung it wide, blasting away revenants in a wide circle around him, then the magazine clunked dry and he knew he was out of ammo. Fresh horrors leapt to grapple at the speeding transport, swarming up its sides with unholy vigour. Smyth reversed his grip and using his rifle as a long club, he battered at the hands climbing over the edge of the hull, beating them back as fast as he could.

From the corner of his eye he spied other machines similarly beset. Primaris warriors fought back from the rooftops, aided by Storm Heralds from the open hatches. They struck ceaselessly, trying to keep the weight of the undead from rolling over them but they could only cover so many angles at once and the fiends just kept coming. One Rhino was nearly buried in bodies and he saw a pair of Reivers torn from its roof by grasping hands but before the fiends could flood the interior the Storm Herald's Dreadnought swung its assault cannon to bear and blasted the revenants away with a torrent of screaming rounds.

Smyth's moment of distraction almost cost him dear as a withered corpse made it to the top and threw itself at him. He snarled as the weight of it knocked him sideways, making his body slam into the rim of the hatch. Desiccated nails scrambled at his eye lens, trying to reach the warm flesh beneath, but he fended it off with a backhanded blow that sent the revenant tumbling to the ground racing beneath them. But in that instant two more fiends made it to the roof and they opened their mouths to spew forth a torrent of acid that would surely end him.

Suddenly there was a weighty thump by his ear and Smyth blinked as he saw the flash of an energised blade. A bolt of lightning struck once and the first fiend was decapitated, then it came again the other corpse toppled backwards off the Razorback, missing its arms. It was Kieva, Smyth realised, the Captain had seen his distress and leapt the distance from the Land Raider in one mighty bound. Gravis armour was not built for speed nor agility, but Kieva had scorned the danger and jumped to his defence anyway. The Captain moved swiftly to engage, relentlessly smiting left and right. A fiend rose up behind him, trying to hit his blind spot but the Captain swung on his heel and his fist flared with energy as the gauntlet struck true, blasting the revenant into a cloud of gory mist. In heartbeats Kieva had cleared the roof of Charael's Justice and he cried, "Fight on Brothers! Let none slow you down!"

The Primaris cheered at their Captain's heroic feat and they redoubled their efforts, lashing out at the fiends swarming over them. Meanwhile the transports raced on, crushing more bodies under their treads. They drove hard for the edge of the pack and at last clear ground appeared before them, but not all of them made it.

"Ware behind!" Smyth heard a voice cry. He twisted about and saw the Predator, Scourge of Heretics, grind to a halt, one track unit dissolving as acid chewed the tanks' flank to nothing. Throngs of undead flooded over the immobilised vehicle, spewing acid even as the tank's guns fired their last desperate shots.

"We have to help them!" Smyth shouted.

But Kieva bellowed, "No! We must keep going; if we stop we all die."

Smyth gritted his teeth but he knew the Captain was right; they could not save the stricken tank. The convoy broke out of the packed ranks, racing for the next hill as the undead swarms turned to chase them. As the tank shrank in his sight Smyth saw the Predator pop its hatches and the two Storm Heralds crewmen come out, pistols blazing as the undead rolled over them. They disappeared under the tide of desiccated flesh, shouting death oaths and firing to the last as the fiends tore them to shreds.

Angrily Smyth beat his clenched fist upon the Razorback's hull and muttered, "This glitching plan better work or we just sacrificed good lives for nothing."


	14. Chapter 14

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 14**

Over hills and down dells the transports raced, throwing up clouds of grit in their wake. They tore across the undulating landscape; cresting peaks at breakneck speed and smashing hard down narrow gullies. They ran for all they worth, pushing themselves to the utmost as they clawed for every last morsel of speed.

In their wake came a tide of dead flesh, thousands upon thousands of dead bodies fired by unholy vigour. Each one had run further and faster than mortal bodies should be able to endure, ripping their rope like sinews in their effort to keep up. No living being could match the pace of Space Marine vehicles but the force that animated these corpses cared nothing for pain or weariness, it forced them on, chasing the Space Marines wherever they went. In a straight line race the machines could probably still have outrun the revenants but they were coming from all directions, swarming over every hill in a tide of withered flesh.

Standing in the cupola of Charael's Justice Lieutenant Smyth gripped the handles of the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter, letting off occasional burst to fend off any foes who got too close. Behind him the twin heavy bolters thundered ceaselessly, firing backwards into the packed masses running in their wake. Smyth saw a knot of fiends closing in from the right and twisted the Storm Bolter about, a squeeze of the triggers and a flurry of bolts scythed them down, blasting off limbs to leave the undead flopping helplessly in the dust. The convoy raced on but Smyth glanced backwards and shouted, "If the plan was to rile them, it has succeeded!"

"Excellent," Captain Kieva shouted back from where he was mag-locked to the Razorback's hull, "We have them right where we want them!"

Smyth hosed down another pack of fiends trying to leap onto the Land Raider dead ahead. His shots were true but the wind snatched the resulting gore and whipped it into his eyes, splattering filth over his faceplate. Smyth snarled and frantically wiped gore from his eye lenses as he shouted, "We can't do this much longer!"

"A few more minutes," Kieva yelled, "Draw in as many as we can!"

Smyth gritted his teeth, firing repeatedly into the packed foes as they blurred past. He didn't know how many walking corpses were trying to box them in but it must number in the tens of thousands, he had not known there were so many enemies in these hills. He tried not to think about what would happen if the revenants overran them, but he suspected the fate of the Predator drivers would seem merciful in comparison.

Smyth felt a pulse of anger at that thought, the Storm Heralds might not be Primaris but those two souls had fought and died well. It was surprising really, the Storm Heralds had a reputation as dogmatic Emperor-Worshippers, but so far they had proved to be stout-hearted warriors. He had not expected that, perhaps there was more to them than he had anticipated.

Suddenly Kieva yelled, "That's enough, all units wheel right!"

The convoy responded instantly, swinging right to charge up a large hill. A throng of undead blocked their path but flurries of bolt rounds cut them down and the machines charged up the slope unimpeded. In their wake came a roiling carpet of revenants, thousands of them so tightly packed that the ground became a moving mass of undead flesh. Smyth gripped his weapon tighter and swore, "By the Omnissiah, the others better be ready for us."

Suddenly the machines crested the lip of the hill and Smyth's hearts leapt as he spied what was waiting for them: a ring of Thunderhawks, regular patterns and transporter varieties, their ramps down and cargo claws open and inviting. The convoy barrelled towards their welcome embrace and as they did so a trio of Aggressors strode forward, gauntlets raised and grenade launchers primed. These Primaris had left the encampment by a different route, heading to the rendezvous in secret while the convoy had driven about in circles, stirring up the undead.

Smyth's machine jerked to a halt just as the revenants crested the hill, only to be met by a whirlwind of metal as the Aggressors opened up. Gauntlets sprayed back and forth, hosing down fiends in droves while grenades shot from their shoulder launchers, blasting craters into the packed corpses. The revenants hissed as they tried to press forward but then the gunship's heavy bolters let known their opinion on the matter and the undead were scythed apart as if they had run into a threshing machine.

Smyth pulled himself free and jumped over the tank's rim, his boots slamming into the dirt a heartbeat before Kieva's. Behind him the doors opened and Toran's command squad piled out, the Champion spitting, "Finally, it was galling being stuck in there while the fighting raged."

Kieva ignored him and ordered, "Make haste, we have but moments to get your vehicles stowed."

The Rhinos began to roll under the gunships, disgorging Astartes and Primaris squads before being picked up two at a time by the mechanical claws. The Land Raider was so bulky it required a gunship all to itself while the Dreadnought merely strode up a ramp and disappeared into the darkness within. Smyth knew it would take barely a minute to get the convoy stowed but he worried that the perimeter wouldn't hold that long.

From the nearest gunship strode the tall Chaplain, who had accompanied the Aggressors. Toran saw him and called, "Furion, are we ready?!"

Furion called back, "Scout teams already embarked, all souls accounted for. We can depart the moment the rest are on board."

Toran cast his eye over the scene and then over the noise of the roaring weapons called, "Captain Kieva, the vehicles are secured. We await your word to begin the next phase."

Kieva paused theatrically, making it clear to his own Marines that this was his decision then said, "Signal your ship to commence Bombardment."

The Storm Herald nodded as one of his command squad with expanded vox gear placed a hand to his ear, then Toran said, "We had best not be here when that barrage arrives."

Kieva concurred, "Quickly, all squads embark now!"

At the perimeter the Aggressors began to walk backwards, still firing into the packed undead while the other squads left their vehicles buried and hurried into the gaping troop bays. Smyth saw the squads disappear one by one into the gunships and the first of them began to take off, rising in clouds of dust even as their heavy bolters kept firing. The Aggressors finally ceased firing and turned to dash up a ramp and the Lieutenant called, "All squads embarked!"

"Go!" Kieva shouted and Smyth dashed up the ramp of the nearest regular Thunderhawk and climbed into its troop bay. Everything was familiar yet oddly strange too, the design subtly different from his customary Overlord. He threw himself into a berth and pulled down the restraint cage, waiting for the cushioning effect of the grav harness to kick in. It was a long moment before he realised that it wasn't going to, because the Thunderhawk had no such technology, the restraints were nothing but bare metal bars locked around his armoured frame.

Smyth had a single second to marvel at such primitive technology but then the Thunderhawk took off, its ramp closing even as it lifted. The gunship stood on vectored thrust for a moment then it shifted to forward flight and shot away on roaring turbines. Smyth felt G-forces slam into him, the weight pressing his flesh hard into his bones. His lips drew back over his teeth and his eyes watered from the forces tugging at them. No matter what else, there was absolutely nothing wrong with the Thunderhawk's engines, these crafts could move.

Smyth suffered a minute of bone-rattling forces as the Thunderhawk climbed away from the surface of the world, then he decided to see what was going on outside. He activated his armour's pict-link with a neural impulse and waited for a response, to his surprise all that came back was a denial as the gunship rejected his access. He thought it was incompatibilities between his newer gear and the ancient design of the craft, but then a request for officer authorisation flashed up. Smyth grimaced to himself; it seemed these Storm Heralds did not believe in letting the rank and file look outside while in flight. Smyth shook his head at the willful blindness of these warriors but he hadn't spent years on Mars without learning a thing or two about Machine Spirits and bypassing the lockout was child's play.

Before his eyes the world became a wide vista of cloud and sky, the feed from the external pict-lenses routed into his helm. He directed his vision to face backwards and the image changed to behold the ground falling away from them. The hills and valleys were already starting to diminish, becoming indistinct blurs. The undead were a grey stain on the land, the individuals too small to be seen from this great altitude. Smyth was just about to look for the other gunships but then the sky split as something tore out of the heavens above. It was a dark black ball of hardened metal, trailing fires of re-entry in its wake, like a comet falling to earth. Smyth barely had time to register it before the ordnance struck the ground, throwing up a cloud of ash as it gouged the massive crater typical to Magma Bombs.

The next sequence of events played out faster than even he could process. The Magma bomb did not stop upon impact but carried on, burrowing even deeper into the dirt as bolt shell would unto a body. The hardened exterior of the bomb was designed to survive such impacts so the shell survived long enough to detonate. The ground heaved upwards as a titanic explosion erupted, throwing tons of soil into the air and forming a new hill in a heartbeat. Violent tremors radiated outwards from the blast site, causing earthquakes of terrifying potency, strong enough to level an entire city. Then followed a great wind, an airborne shockwave equal to any hurricane. It blasted across the land, scouring it bare and tossing away anything that fell into its irresistible grip. Every fiend within a few miles of the impact site was thrown to the ground as the land danced beneath their feet, but the worst had yet to come.

The new hill was still growing, bulging from the surface like a blister. It swelled obscenely and then it burst, blasting out fiery contrails of magma in all directions. So hot had been the explosion that the solid rock had melted, becoming a molten pool of incandescent fury, not for nothing were the city-killing weapons called Magma Bombs. The miniature volcano spawned streams of gushing lava which ran down its flanks while blobs of molten rock were thrown high into the air, arcing away to land randomly in the distance. In a few seconds the ground had been comprehensively changed, reworked to create a new topography. Then another Magma bomb struck from above, and another and another and another, obliterating the entire region and any revenant left within it.

Soaring far above Smyth felt the Thunderhawk rattle as the shockwave tried to pull it from the sky but the gunship powered through and climbed into the upper atmosphere, where the air gave way to the void of space. Smyth finally cut the link and let his head rest back in the cage with his eyes closed, knowing that their enemies were defeated. The Space Marines had lured the undead together in great numbers so that they could be destroyed in one orbital bombardment, a deceptively simple plan but an effective one.

Smyth knew the battlefield had been scoured bare of foes and he felt a surge of satisfaction at the unexpected victory. Countless numbers of enemies were obliterated a worthy tally in exchange for their own losses. The Unnumbered Sons had claimed vengeance this day and snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, their pride had been restored and they could leave this world with their heads held high. Then Smyth remembered that they had not done it alone and his eyes opened to take in the troop bay, filled with Storm Heralds. There was no arguing with the fact that the Primaris were stuck in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by warriors of an unfamiliar Chapter and with no way to return home. Then there was the mystery surrounding the destruction of their own ship to be unravelled. Smyth sighed deeply as he realised that they still had great challenges ahead of them.


	15. Chapter 15

**Indomitus Bellum chapter 15**

The ship shook from the discharge of weapon's fire, an echoing boom that reverberated through its superstructure and rang in the compartments. It resonated in the crew berths, it pealed in the bilges and it tolled in the enginarium, nowhere could it not be heard. Over and over the Thunderchild sang the song of war, her Bombardment cannons discharging repeatedly in a steady pattern of reloading and firing. Sometimes it would go quiet for an hour or so but then it would return, inevitable as a sunrise.

Within the ship's amphitheatre like Strategium Captain Toran watched the results of the barrage unfold. Projected above his head was a Hololithic rendition of Inerus, the planet laid out in all its drab bleakness. The lands and small seas were displayed in perfect detail, the cities being spots of darkness, distributed widely. Most of those cities were burning; their districts laid waste by Magma Bombs, leaving only total devastation in their wake. Only a few were left standing but their days were numbered, literally, each one denoted by a timer that proclaimed how long it would take the Thunderchild to obliterate them too.

Toran's augmetic eye frazzled with feedback as it took in the flickering Hololith but he concentrated his attention on his organic eye and concluded, "Two more days."  
But another voice arose growling, "Too long."

Toran glanced over and saw Sergeant Orath standing nearby, along with Furion, Arvael, Memnos and his Command Squad. All of them gathering to witness the destruction of Inerus. The Terminator's plates were still scoured by acid marks, his ceramite surface pitted to reveal the Adamantium underlayer. Orath should be in the armoury chambers, letting serf-artisans tend to his suit's woes but the Sergeant had refused to sit idle while the destruction continued. The one exception, the only exception, was the blessed Crux Terminatus upon his shoulder, the revered icon meticulously having been restored to its full glory. Toran had heard legends that each badge contained a fragment of the Emperor's own armour, a baseless myth in his opinion for his kin were prone to superstitious awe, but as a mark of honour it was no less potent.

On the other side of the Strategium Furion argued, "We cannot change the laws of physics. Obliterating a whole planet takes time, the orbital vectors only allow us to cover so much of the surface at once."  
Orath snorted at that and cussed, "Warp Hells, this is a waste of time."  
Toran glared at the boorish remark and stated, "It is a necessary duty and one we will not shirk from."

Orath fell silent but then Persion mused, "Are we sure this will destroy all the undead?"  
Arvael answered him, "Not all, but most of them. Sadly the taint of Chaos will be harder to remove, the Exterminatus will be required."

Toran concurred, "I have spoken to the Astropaths and missives have been sent, the Inquisition will undoubtedly send a Black Ship to cleanse this world."  
Jediah growled in response, "Why don't we carry Virus bombs routinely? It would be faster to do it ourselves."  
Memnos answered by saying, "Far too dangerous, one slip and we would expose ourselves. Such nightmares are kept under strict lock and key, only to be released when absolutely needed."

Toran agreed, "We can still level this planet conventionally and establish a quarantine, no taint will escape this world."  
But Orath grumbled, "We should have done this in the first place, damn those Primaris for making us waste lives."

Furion fixed him with a glare and growled, "Noble Brothers died in glory, laying down their lives for victory. Do not disparage their sacrifice."  
Orath's lip curled as he hissed, "It was unnecessary, Storm Heralds died for outsiders and have they said so much as a thank you? We haul their arses out of the fire and those arrogant wretches still think they are better than us!"  
Furion's eyes narrowed and he spat, "You shame yourself with this talk, Space Marines fight and die to protect the Imperium from any and all threats. That is the Emperor's Will and to question this is to doubt Him on Terra."

Orath didn't look abashed but Toran turned to Memnos and said, "Apothecary, what can you tell us of our guests?"  
Memnos drew in a breath and said, "Their wounded are stabilised and recovering at an impressive rate. All together we evacuated seventy-one survivors and I expect them all to make a complete recovery. But I had a good opportunity to examine their unique physiology and it is troubling. Their gene-seed is indeed enhanced and refined; every organ operates at peak efficiency. They also have three completely new organs, the Furnace is straightforward enough as are the Sinew Coils, but the Magnificat in the brain is a mystery to me. The Primaris themselves couldn't explain is function and I doubt anyone truly understands this abomination."

Novak frowned as he asked, "You don't approve?"  
Memnos sneered, "This Belisarius Cawl is a Heretek and if he and I were in this room then I would wring his metal neck for his wanton defilement of the gene-seed."

Toran's gaze fell to the Apothecary's Chains of Shame and he realised how personal this would be to Memnos. His own involvement in experimental alterations to the Chapter's gene-seed had resulted in sadistic tortures upon children. The Apothecary's shame would be eternal, to see another doing the same, and succeeding, must strike at the very core of him.

Toran steered the conversation back on track by saying, "The question now becomes, what shall we do with our guests? They have no means to return to their comrades, I have permitted Kieva to communicate with his superiors via Astropath but until word comes we have a Company of Primaris Marines to deal with."  
Furion remarked, "Thankfully the Thunderchild has room to spare, she was built to host three Companies and we are but one. These Unnumbered Sons have confined themselves to a barracks in the lower quarters and seem content to stay there."

Orath growled, "I recommend putting guards on every entrance to that compartment and random patrols throughout the ship. Under no circumstances should they be allowed near the bridge, the armouries or the Enginarium."  
Novak started and protested, "That's a bit provocative don't you think?"

Orath shook his head and said, "We were thrust together by circumstance but that does not make us allies. I don't trust these Primaris Marines; they certainly do not trust us."  
Toran raised a hand and said, "We have no reason not to trust them, yet prudence is never to be scorned. Let us keep a guard ready and restrict their access to the most sensitive parts of the ship. Meanwhile Arvael, can you provide us with any insights?"

The Librarian drew in a slow breath and explained, "Their auras are guarded and withdrawn but it is obvious they do not like being here. They have secrets of their own yet I sense no overt hostility, I can say with some certitude that they are not planning to seize the ship this day. Beyond that I cannot be more specific unless I perform a deep scan, which will be blatantly obvious."

Toran accepted this and said, "So they are stuck with us and we with them. Perhaps we should bring them to Lujan II, where they can await rescue. Chapter Master Phalros has sent missives recalling all Companies in expectation of the Indomitus Crusade's arrival, Second Captain Cyvo and Fourth Captain Hakulo are concluding their own campaigns post-haste and should be home before us."

Novak muttered, "Bring them to the Fortress-Monastery and the Forgemaster will hit the roof, you know how he views their modifications."  
Yet Persion suddenly frowned and cocked his head, listening to his vox-gear and then said, "Captain, vox message coming from the Primaris' quarters. Its a formal request for an audience from Captain Kieva."

Toran was surprised to hear that but responded smoothly, "By all means, have him brought to the Strategium."  
"I wonder what he wants?" Novak pondered.  
Toran replied, "We will find out when he gets here and Orath, try not to insult him to his face."

Toran waited patiently and within a few minutes Captain Kieva appeared, escorted by a pair of shorter Tactical Marines. He loomed over them in his stout armour, Gravis pattern, a mark Toran was not familiar with. As Kieva descended the long steps towards the arena floor Toran took a moment to access his counterpart. Down on the surface there had been no time for reflection but now he examined this new armour in great detail.

The plate was superficially similar to the other Mark X variants but heavier and reinforced in unusual ways. It had a high hood and expanded greaves with additional plates across the abdomen. It reminded Toran of the Aggressors he had seen in the field, but lacked their armaments. He judged it would provide almost the same level of protection as Terminator armour but would not be nearly as heavy or inflexible, drawbacks to Tactical Dreadnought plate that Toran had found almost intolerable on the few occasions he had worn it. Yet the most intriguing aspect was a hefty power fist on one arm, with a small bolter underslung, that reminded Toran of ancient pict-images he had seen of the Hand of Dominion, Roboute Guilliman's own personal weapon in the Great Crusade.

Kieva pulled up before the assembled Storm Heralds and stood rigidly for an awkward moment, then he reluctantly bowed and said, "Captain Toran, it seems our positions are reversed. Now I am the guest and you are my host."  
Toran returned the traditional bow and said, "You are welcome to stay with us for as long as is necessary."  
Kieva's eye twitched as if he was irritated but his reply was cool as he said, "Not too long, I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome."

A slight growl from Orath reminded Toran that Kieva hadn't mentioned the rescue from the planet nor offered thanks. The traditions that bound Chapters together should have led him to acknowledge the debt or offered condolences for the losses the Storm Heralds had suffered in the rescue, but Kieva was doing his best to look like he had never needed assistance. Toran's estimation of the Marine fell a notch as he realised the Primaris was still clinging to his affronted pride.

Icily Toran said, "We are concluding our operations here and then will return to our homeworld, you shall be our guests until your own forces reach the Saint Karyl Trail."  
Kieva sounded reluctant to speak as he uttered, "Alas, I must deliver new orders to you. You must stay in this stellar system."

Toran saw his squad stir at that, the unusual request offending their dignity. Hastily Toran pressed, "For what reason?"  
Kieva looked like he had swallowed a lemon but he explained, "I have received fresh orders from the Crusade. The Warp is troubled and the fleet is moving slower than expected. The Lord Commander is concerned that events here may have exacerbated the warp and altered the immaterial tides, so he has decreed that the fleet will pause to recalculate their headings. You are required to rendezvous with the Macragge's Honour and provide the Lord Commander with a full debriefing, in person."

Toran's ears heard the request but his brain refused to process the words, he could only stare in disbelief as his jaw worked up and down. His throat went dry and he had trouble forming a sentence as he spluttered, "He… the… the… lord.. he… the Primarch… he's coming here?!"  
The slightest smile tugged at Kieva's lip and he offered, "Try taking a deep breath."

Toran' s head was swirling at the very thought but he paused to centre his humours and then said, "My apologies, you must take us for rustic fools."  
Kieva shook his head and replied, "No, it's a surprisingly common reaction, Primarchs seem to have that effect on people."

Toran swallowed then bowed deeply and stated, "Of course we shall comply with the order. I request that you signal the Macragge's Honour to inform them we shall be ready when the fleet arrives."  
"Of course," Kieva affirmed, "I shall do so immediately."

With that he turned and strode away, leaving the Storm Heralds dumbfounded. Toran turned to his Brothers and gasped, "Did you hear that?"  
Every one of them looked flabbergasted and Novak was the first to say, "I heard it but I don't believe it. Guilliman, we're going to meet Roboute Guilliman, in person."

Furion appeared equally shocked as he said, "I knew he was out there, but the idea of meeting him…"  
"I know," Orath uttered, "I never believed it would come to pass, not really."

Toran drew himself up straight and proclaimed, "We must tell the squads immediately, every Brother must know of this momentous news. This is shall be a day that will live forever in our Chapter's annals."


	16. Chapter 16

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 16**

The Thunderchild was never quiet, no starship ever was. Even on the quietest of days the reactors would rumble and the main drives would drone. Munition hoists would jangle and the screeching of machine tools would fill the decks as repair teams went about their business. Red-robed enginseers would march the long paths from bow to stern, chanting binaric hymnals while lay-adepts trailed behind, banging ceremonial silver hammers on cog shaped drums.

This was the base state of being for Imperial starships, yet today there was a frantic urgency to these duties. The crew were in a frenzy of excitement, working themselves to death to complete their labours. Components were constantly replaced, even those well within their tolerances, and casings were polished to a shine. Chapels were scrubbed by robed clerics on their hands and knees while decks were swabbed and swabbed again. Servitors were cleansed and control surfaces scoured with fine horse hair brushes. Even the bilges, those filthy holds dedicated to sewage reclamation and food-ration production were flushed with scalding steam, driving out rat colonies that had dwelt there for decades.

The Space Marines also seemed swept up in the hysteria, drilling with furious ardour, even by their exceptional standards. Every aspect of their performance was honed to perfection, every soul seeking to excel above and beyond anything they had achieved before. Their gear was no exception, every plate being buffed and waxed with obsessive repetition, each weapon thrice-blessed and consecrated with exacting precision.

The officers were not excluded either, their own armour shining like sapphires. Captain Toran was striding through the decks, his Ceramite gleaming and his ranks chains shining while his iron halo was dappled with sacred unguents. His tattered cloak had been replaced with a new red cape, that was embroidered with purity seals. He marched crisply through the ship, inspecting everything as he ordered, "Make sure the Reflex shields are test fired, the Lord Guilliman may wish for a demonstration of such unusual technology."

Two steps behind him Furion marched, his own armour glistening as he answered, "We already have a drill scheduled for this afternoon."

Behind the pair came Arvael, who was most bemused by this attitude. The Librarian had watched his kin's preparations in bewilderment, not understanding their excitement. Naturally, like all Storm Heralds, he revered the Primarch, five thousand years of devotion had ingrained an instinctive awe of their gene-father, but he was finding this zealous fervour a tad excessive. Even Captain Toran, a rational and level-headed a Marine in most respects, seemed caught up in the mania.

Word had gone forth of the imminent meeting and every soul was filled with keen awe, so why wasn't Arvael? The Librarian couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was off, instead of excitement he felt a strange sense of foreboding hanging over him. He had proven to himself that he had no prophetic skills or precognitive abilities, but something he couldn't identify was gnawing at his certainty, telling him that not all was as it seemed.

Suddenly Toran stopped outside an observation bay and proclaimed, "I have consulted with Kieva, the protocol for greeting new Chapters to the Crusade requires our officers to shuttle over to the Macragge's Honour, to formally greet the Primarch and pledge him our allegiance, then he will inspect our ranks."

Furion nodded and said, "We must expect his inspection to be rigorous, the ship must be perfect in every detail."

Toran mused, "I think the crew understands that already, I have never seen them so fired up."

Furion concurred, "It is to be expected, the Chapter has waited five thousand years for this."

Toran grinned as he remarked, "I am thrilled that we are to be the first Storm Heralds to greet him, Captain Hakulo will turn green with envy."

Arvael interrupted to say, "Excuse me, but in all the excitement has anyone thought to inform Honourable Ajax?"

Toran glanced at the entrance to the observation bay and said, "You shame me, for have I neglected that duty. I must correct my error immediately."

Arvael shook his head and said, "With respect, I think its best I talk to him, alone."

Toran queried with a frown, "Why do you think that?"

Arvael was reluctant to speak his concerns regarding Ajax and covered by saying, "I need to talk to him about a Librarius matter."

To his surprise everybody became pensive and the Captain said, "Very well, we shall return to our preparations."

With they turned and strode away, leaving the Librarian dumbfounded. He had become accustomed to the wariness and antipathy of even his close kin but it had never occurred to him that it could in fact be useful in getting his own way. Nobody wanted to peer too closely into the affairs of a Psyker, they would prefer to blind themselves rather than know what he was up to. The thought occurred that those possibilities were intriguing, he could do anything and no one would know. Then Arvael quashed the wicked thought with a fierce self-rebuke, such notions were dangerous and led to deviant ideas; truly the perils of the Psyker were as varied as they were numerous. Arvael mentally assigned himself two hours of self-flagellation for his base instinct and turned to stride into the observation bay.

Within he found an open space facing an armourglass viewportal. In the window was a stunning vista of Inerus, the planet's terminator lying diagonally before him. The sunward side of the planet was smeared with ashen clouds and turgid smoke, while the night side was sprinkled with dots of fire, the cities that the Thunderchild had systematically annihilated. Silhouetted against that vista was the towering sight of Honourable Ajax, the Dreadnought facing away from the entrance to gaze upon the planet. The ancient war machine was still pitted by acid marks, his glorious colours scoured bare save for an occasional flash of blue. Ajax's weapons were lowered, like man resting his sword arm as he watched the planet drift by. For all his size and power he seemed lost in thought, his mind far away as he pondered important matters.

Arvael took a step forward but before he could speak Ajax rumbled, "I KNOW YOU'RE THERE, COME OUT WHERE I CAN SEE YOU."

Arvael swallowed as he walked forward, he took a millisecond to scan the Dreadnought's aura and found it to be coherent, for now. The Librarian stepped up to the ancient and said, "Honourable Ajax, I offer greetings."

"IT'S ONLY YOU," Ajax uttered dismissively, "I thought it would be young Toran."

Arvael blinked as he said, "Your voice…"

Ajax's sensor dome turned slightly and he said, "I have met hundreds of Librarians in my time and none of you can resist poking about where you're not welcome, so I know a scary voice won't fool you."

Arvael frowned and asked, "Then why bother at all?"

Ajax's sensor dome turned back to face the planet and he explained, "The others expect it of me, these children pretending to be Space Marines. They need to see me as the unbreakable, undefeatable Ajax. Their one solid constant in a universe of war, to see me any other way would undermine their morale."

Arvael nodded, relieved that Ajax's mind was firmly in the here and now and he said, "Honoured Brother, there is an important matter to discuss."

"I am dying," Ajax stated frankly and without dissembling.

Arvael started in surprise and spluttered, "You… you know?!"

"How could I not?" Ajax replied, "Not physically but mentally, my days are numbered. When the fires of war are upon me, when the rage and the anger burns bright everything is so clear, but between the fights a dark fog comes over me. I find myself talking to Brothers who died centuries ago, I lose track of where I am and when. I feel it at the corners of my mind even now, a fugue gathers, obscuring my sight and leading me astray."

Arvael swallowed hesitantly and asked, "Perhaps you should return to your stasis-crypt…"

Ajax replied sadly, "Stasis no longer restores me, it merely slows the deterioration. I find it becoming harder and harder to awaken, the climb back to the light grows steeper every time. The Forgemaster has expressed concern that unless something changes then someday I may not awaken at all."

Arvael was dumbfounded to hear that and he queried, "How long have you known?"

"Centuries," Ajax answered sadly, "The fog began to fill my mind but at first I could keep it at bay. Duty compelled me to continue and anger lent me strength, but it could not last forever. Strange, to hear an Astartes speak so, we like to boast we are functionally immortal, but it turns out even we have our limits."

Arvael shook his head and argued, "You are not the oldest Dreadnought in the galaxy, there are some far older than you."

"That knave Bjorn," Ajax spat, "That blaggart was always too stubborn to die, but I am not he. I cannot imagine the anger it takes to sustain one for so long, the depthless fury that keeps him going."

Arvael didn't know what else to say save, "You won't die today, you still have centuries ahead of you."

Ajax didn't seem to be listening as he uttered, "The worst times are moments like this, when the fires of anger fade but the fog has yet to fall. I know it's coming but I can't stop it. There is no pain like knowing you are losing your mind."

Arvael was a Psyker and he could not imagine being cut off from his reason. To lose his keen intellect would be a torment but to know it was happening, to experience one's mind falling apart, that was a horror beyond description. He swallowed to clear his throat and said, "What shall you do?"

Ajax was quiet for a long moment then stated, "I have been giving it much thought: the next time I go into stasis I might not awaken at all, in which case I am as good as dead. The alternative is to fall apart piece by piece, to become a doddering, senile wreck, raving at ghosts and unable to tell friend from foe. I would become as dangerous to my own kin as a Chaos Dreadnought is to the Traitor filth. My Brothers would be forced to chain me down and take my weapons away, leaving me a howling madman. They would look upon me with pity, that above all wounds me; I will not stand to be pitied."

Arvael wanted to argue the point but he knew all too well the foundations of Ajax's mind were crumbling, he could see the psychic degeneration. Arvael dared to say, "Surely it won't come to that."

"I had a chance to end it cleanly," Ajax lamented, "Down there on the surface, I could have died nobly and well. The legend of Ajax would have ended gloriously, but duty called to me once again, they still needed me and I could not allow myself to die. But next time… "

Arvael realised that Ajax was fading away again, without a purpose his will was spluttering out. Purpose, Arvael thought and then he suddenly recalled his reason for coming and said, "It would have been a shame, to have come so far only to fall before the Primarch arrives."

Ajax's sensor dome turned slightly at that and he asked, "The Primarch?"

Arvael nodded as he said, "Oh yes, we are awaiting rendezvous with the Indomitus Crusade, the Lord of Ultramar demands a personal recount of recent events."

Ajax was silent for a long moment then uttered, "Roboute Guilliman is coming to meet us?"

Suddenly the Dreadnought surged into life, stomping about to face the door and marching away. Arvael stepped back in surprise and called, "Ajax, where are you going?"

"TO A REPAIR SHRINE," Ajax boomed, "I CAN'T MEET OUR GENE-FATHER LOOKING LIKE A RUSTY OLD GROUND CAB! WHAT ARE YOU STILL STANDING AROUND FOR, THERE'S NOT A MOMENT TO WASTE!"

Arvael was stunned by the transformation and as the Dreadnought marched out he permitted himself a small smile, he had guessed right, the ancient warrior shared his Brother's innate awe of their gene-father and was just as moved by it. To Arvael's psychic perceptions Ajax's mind was a bubbling geyser of pure excitement, a force just as potent as anger. It seemed Ajax wouldn't be dying anytime soon.

One duty discharged Arvael turned to look out the viewportal and resumed his earlier musings. Everybody else was excited beyond words by the coming meeting, so why wasn't he? Why was it that he alone felt a terrible sense of foreboding?


	17. Chapter 17

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 17**

Deep within the Thunderchild the starboard barracks was filled with activity as dozens of Primaris Marines went about their duties. Squads practised their skills in the shooting ranges and ran clearances on mock-ups of buildings, while armour and weapons were tended with reverent care. Many hid looks of scorn at the unfamiliar surroundings, their own tastes running far more to the stark functionality of Martian aesthetics, but they made do. They all knew they were stuck here for the next few days so quietly decided to put up and shut up.

However in a small ancillary chamber raised voices indicated that a few disagreed with that attitude. Chief among them was the voice of Captain Kieva who yelled, "I am not having this argument again!"

Standing across from him Lieutenant Smyth retorted angrily, "We can't close our eyes to this!"

Kieva glared angrily at his subordinate and hissed, "Your suspicious mind is straying into outright paranoia. You are leaping at shadows and conjuring phantasms in the corners."

Smyth grimaced at the accusations but bit his tongue, not wanting to raise his voice to his commander. Yet besides him another voice queried, "Are we really going to put all these disasters down to random chance?" It was Sergeant Yones, who had joined the officers in the Captain's temporary office for this debate. Like all of them his armour had been meticulously restored to its former glory, a laborious task given the lack of proper tools available for the advanced Mark X design.

Wearily Kieva muttered, "Not you too."

Yones however replied, "I'm not taking sides, but you have to admit there is a pattern emerging."

Smyth seized the opportunity to exclaim, "We still have not explained the loss of our strike cruiser, nor the events on the planet. The destruction of the orbital dock, the plague and the curse of the undead, are we really going to assume that these events are unrelated?"

Kieva glared at the pair of them then said, "I know where this is going and I refuse to believe that anyone could orchestrate such events from light years away. This was not Megaro's doing."

Smyth shook his head and implored, "How can we be certain? That renegade came to us years ago, bleating about the Heresy in his Chapter. Yet in all that time has he ever trusted us? Has he not kept breaking our restrictions and abusing our hospitality. You yourself had to place him under arrest when he tried to enter the Lord Commander's presence without authorisation."

Yones added, "All he's done since he arrived is bad-mouth the Storm Heralds and yet now we've met them, I'm not convinced they are what he claims. They seem stalwart and pragmatic warriors, why I've not once heard them mention the subject of the Emperor's Divinity. I thought we'd be subjected to endless sermonising, but none of them seems to care."

"Enough!" Kieva spat cutting off the argument, "I do not want you two talking with the Storm Heralds, you know our orders. Fraternisation with them is counter-productive; need I remind you they have posted guards to our quarters? They clearly trust us even less than we trust them."

Smyth actually thought that to be a basic precaution when strangers were on a ship, but he bit down on the retort and instead said, "So you do not intend to investigate any further?"

Kieva's eyes narrowed and he said, "Megaro and his little band are under lock and key. They go nowhere without an escort from myself, you or the Custodian Guard. You have met the Custodes, you know what they can do. No mere Astartes can match one of the Emperor's Companions, not in combat or in guile. Megaro's band could not be responsible and you will cease badgering me about them. I have them under control; I'd stake my reputation on it."

Smyth could only fall silent, his unbreakable discipline meaning he was unable to argue with his superior but Yones queried, "And what report do we make explaining the loss of our ship?"

Kieva relaxed slightly and uttered, "A good question, to which I finally have the answer. I have consulted with the Astropaths and Navigator of this ship and determined that the Immaterium has become dangerously turbulent. The sudden death toll on the planet stirs the Empyrean, causing a localised warp disturbance. A warp squall batters at reality; it slows the pace of the Crusade fleet and also threatens to break out into realspace. Such a surge could easily overwhelm the Gellar Field of a lone Strike Cruiser and cause calamities and malefic occurrences on the planet below."

Smyth carefully chose his words as he said, "Some will point out that our ship was lost before populace died, before the squall could have formed."

"Don't be a slipped gear," Kieva retorted, "You know the Immaterium obeys no physical laws. Effects often precede causes in that nightmare dimension."

Yones ventured, "So the case is closed?"

Kieva nodded and said, "My official report will state that the Omnissiah's Bounty was lost to Gellar Field failure, a most tragic misfortune. All the other events were caused by Warp Taint. You will counter-sign that report and if questioned shall not refute my word. That is an order, am I understood?"

"Yes Captain," the pair chorused reluctantly.

"Good," Kieva growled, "Now get out of my sight."

With that Smyth turned on his heel and icily stalked from the room, leaving Yones to return to his own duties. The Lieutenant scowled as he marched away, stamping down the passage with an angry pace. Past the barracks and mess halls he marched, not pausing in his bitter stride. With a furious expression he stormed past the various Primaris Marines, leaving them puzzled in his wake.

Locked in frustration Smyth made his way to the barrack's training hall, where large hemispherical cages stood in a line. He saw they were currently unused and stomped into the nearest, pulling the wire fame door shut after him. Inside the cage was a four-armed servitor, each limb ending in a long blade, while its torso and head were heavily reinforced with metal plates. Smyth pulled a gladius from his belt and held it in his fist as he snarled, "Begin combat routine, maximum setting."

"Compliance," the servitor droned and then suddenly jerked forward, stabbing with all its blades simultaneously. Smyth parried one and sidestepped the other three then lashed out with a counter that skidded off a metal plate in its abdomen. Another attack was deflected only to be followed by a counter in an exchange of blows that would have appeared blurry to mortal eyes. Smyth settled into the familiar routine, exchanging blows with the training device. There was no pattern nor repetition to the attacks, keeping the exercise from becoming too easy but the strikes were basic enough for him to evade any injuries.

For long minutes Smyth danced back and forth with the servitor, losing himself in the purity of the exercise. His armoured footfalls were mirrored by the clomp of the Servitor's metal feet, a rhythm of combat as mesmerising as it was deadly. For a brief moment he could just be a warrior with no concerns beyond surviving the next second, a welcome relief but sadly a short one. Smyth couldn't help but remember Kieva's refusal to listen and the thought made his attention drift for a second. The servitor responded instantly, lashing out with a long blade that carved a furrow across the Lieutenant's vambrace.

Smyth snarled in anger at the mark upon his armour and struck out with all his might, severing the blade from the servitor. Three other blades hurtled around to strike at his back but Smyth's patience had evaporated and he dodged the blows with ease. Three return blows saw the other limbs severed, leaving the servitor armless, standing blankly before him as its lobotomised brain tried to calculate what to do next.

"Terminate exercise," Smyth said with a sigh.

"Compliance," the servitor droned as it powered down.

Smyth sheathed his blade but was startled when a slow clap came from outside of the cage. He spun on his heel and was startled to see a figure emerge from the hall's doorway, a lean silhouette in light Phobos armour. Smyth berated himself for losing his situational awareness but swiftly realised that his unexpected visitor was a Reiver: Sergeant Ingvis.

Smyth knew Ingvis, he was sullen and insolent, always thinking he knew better than everyone else, in other words a typical Reiver. The Reivers were a special order in the ranks of the Primaris armies, tasked with operations of sabotage and calculated terror behind enemy lines. They were expected to go into danger alone and unsupported and then complete their objectives by whatever means they saw fit. Generally Smyth found them to be unruly, brash and ill-disciplined, as a rule he preferred to simply tell them their target and then let them figure out the rest for themselves, it wasn't like they would listen to his tactical recommendations anyway.

Smyth sheathed his gladius and said, "Ingvis, how long were you watching?"

"Longer than necessary Smyth," Ingvis remarked, "You could have taken that junker apart in one-tenth the time."

Smyth sniffed slightly and said, "I wanted to stretch my limbs, a light workout, nothing more."

Ingvis nodded, showing off his head which was shaved bald while a tattoo of a falling sword hung over his left eye. Smyth had never much cared for Ingvis but he respected what the Reiver could do. It irked him though that they were both blood of the XIIIth Legion, if the Reiver had been VIth or Vth Legion stock then at least he would have an excuse for his ways. Smyth stepped out of the training cage and looked at Ingvis as he asked, "Something you want?"

Ingvis hooked his thumbs into his belt and spoke, "I heard you and Kieva had an argument."

"That's Captain Kieva to you," Smyth growled, "And how do you know about that?"

Ingvis shrugged as he demurred, "I get around."

Smyth rolled his eyes and said, "Well don't spread it about, morale suffers when officers argue."

Ingvis stared levelly for a long moment then declared, "There are too many coincidences going on for my liking, I don't trust coincidence. Something stinks and my gut tells me we're in trouble."

Smyth sighed, "All those years on Mars and you still act on instinct. Well Captain Kieva won't be moved by your gut, he requires proof."

Ingvis looked thoughtful as he said, "What if I told you I believe the loss of the Omnissiah's Bounty was no accident."

Smyth started in disbelief and exclaimed, "But surely the Gellar Field…"

Ingvis shook his head and said, "My squad happened to be in among the Gellar Field generators during the incident and we didn't see anything wrong."

"That's a sensitive area, off-limits during warp flight," Smyth snapped accusingly, "What were you doing in there?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Ingvis retorted, "The point is we got a first-hand look at the generators as things went down and I'm telling you they were working perfectly. The reality bubble showed no signs of strain or penetration, whatever took out the Strike Cruiser was no freak warp squall."

"Are you suggesting sabotage?" Smyth hissed.

Ingvis shrugged as he said, "I'm not saying anything, save that our ship wasn't lost to random warp turbulence, nor a Daemonic attack."

Smyth was surprised to hear that but not shocked. This only confirmed his suspicions that there was a mind behind the calamities that had befallen them. Too many tragedies had fallen at once for this to be an accident, no, someone was orchestrating events, he was sure of it. Smyth drew in a breath and said, "Thank you for the information, rest assured I will act upon it."

Ingvis raised an eyebrow and asked, "You don't want me to…"

"No," Smyth uttered, "Just keep your eyes and ears open and tell me anything else you uncover. I will investigate this matter and find the proof we need to convince Captain Kieva."

"As you will," Ingvis stated then turned and walked out.

Smyth was left alone in the training hall to muse upon what he had heard. Slowly his fists tightened and his will hardened, mysteries surrounded him but he was determined to get to the bottom of the enigma. He knew just where to start too, as soon as they met up with the Crusade he would find the culprit and dig up whatever secrets the Heretic was hiding. Silently Smyth vowed that no matter the cost, he would root out this sedition and make the renegade pay.


	18. Chapter 18

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 18**

Lights moved in the dark, tiny motes of life adrift in the freezing wastes of space. They crossed the star-speckled backdrop of the deep void, making distant suns twinkle as they blocked out the light with their passage. The human eye would have seen this as a slight distortion but in frequencies beyond mortal perception the void was filled with activity. Invisible flurries of vox chatter and auspex sweeps sang loudly in the deep, while darting fighters traced long lines of drive-wash across the void as they probed ahead for threats.

Following in their wake came the mighty forms of warp-capable craft. First were hundreds upon hundreds of escort frigates, formed into lethal wolf-packs as they prowled the perimeter with unsympathetic eyes. Behind those came a solid wall of adamantium prowed cruiser squadrons, scores of ships ready and eager to dive upon any intruder who made it past the outer guard screen. Their intent was made clear via their open gun ports and loaded Torpedo tubes, statements that nothing was going to get past them.

Sheltering in their wake came the support craft; forge tenders, cargo ships, troops transports and fuelling barges. There were dedicated planetary assault craft too, carrying Titan coffin-landers, Knight Drop-Keeps, Tetrarch heavy landers and Imperial Guard orbital conveyances. These were feeble craft in comparison to the dedicated warships but so many were they that their piffling guns could have torn apart any intruder.

This alone constituted an armada as mighty as any Sector battlefleet yet it was merely the outer shell of the fleet, for the real heavy hitters sailed within this sphere of defence. Battleships, dozens of them. This nobility of the void ploughed forward on contrails of plasma wash, their momentum irresistible and their mass staggering. Retribution classes imperiously sailed on as Emperor classes constantly rotated their fighter squadrons. Thoroughbred Apocalypse classes sailed alongside Oberon brawlers while brutal Battlebarges and haughty Forgeships stalked in their wake. Any one of these vessels could have been the flagship of its fleet but in this armada they were but minor considerations, mere pretenders to the throne. The true monarch lay at the very centre of the formation sailed the Macragge's Honour, flagship of Roboute Guilliman himself. This was the heart and soul of the Indomitus Crusade and it closed upon Inerus with stately majesty.

Waiting in orbit the Thunderchild drifted all alone in the night. She was sitting right in the Crusade's path and even the slightest glance told one that she was ridiculously outmatched. Her bulk seemed tiny in comparison to the vast armada bearing down upon her, a minnow sitting before a school of oceanic predators. She was already being probed by thousands of wary eyes; multiple layers of auspex sweeps washing over her while fighters darted closer, seeking to provoke a hostile response.

Standing upon the command dais Captain Toran swallowed as he gazed into the bridge's Hololith and ordered, "Nobody do anything rash."

Standing beside him Chaplain Furion murmured, "I wasn't planning to."

The Hololith was awash with icons, each one representing a warship training its guns upon the Thunderchild. Toran had rarely seen so many contacts at once, only the battles against the Tyranid menace could boast more numbers, but they were piffling things compared to the might on display here. Toran had a growing concern that the slightest misstep could see the Thunderchild blown to atoms, when it came to security the Indomitus Crusade really wasn't messing about.

At the Sensorium Persion remarked, "More contacts are coming into auspex range, how many Imperial vessels are in this Crusade?"

From the Ordnance Pulpit Novak replied, "A better question would be, are there any ships left in Segmentum Solar?"

Toran shook off his malaise and said, "Enough idle gazing, we need to make contact. Send out a vox-hail and transmit our recognition pennants. Raise our standard over the bridge and fly the hololithic ensigns from every tower and steeple, I want us to shine with the Chapter's colours. Captain Kieva may I ask you to join me; we will need your security clearance."

The crew fell to their tasks while the Primaris Captain confidently climbed the steps to the Command Dais. Toran had invited his counterpart to the bridge for the initial meeting and Kieva looked pleased to see his home fleet at last. Toran waited a moment then said, "The Indomitus Crusade is more extensive than I realised."

Kieva smirked slightly as he explained, "What are you are looking at Fleet Primus of the Indomitus Crusade, equal to any of the old Terran Expeditionary Fleets, but it is not the only one. There are ten such forces spread throughout the galaxy, Fleets Secundus to Decimus, each with their own mission and arena of battle. They are further divided into scores of rapid response formations, scouting flotillas and battlegroups, scattered for light years in every vector. We knew from the outset that we weren't going to save the galaxy one glitching world at a time."

From the Sensorium Persion commented, "I see a lot of Strike Cruisers and Battlebarges, but not from any Chapter I know."

Kieva looked thoughtful as he said, "There are numerous Astartes brotherhoods attached to the Crusade, Fleet Primus currently has thirty Chapters attached to its order of battle, some committing only one Company others at full strength. The Unnumbered Sons themselves stand about five thousand strong, though the total varies as Cawl replaces combat losses. The other fleets have similar numbers."

Toran was shocked to hear that and he exclaimed, "Fifty thousand Primaris Marines fight under the Crusade's banner? But that is well in excess of the Codex Astartes' restrictions."

Kieva smiled slyly and informed him, "We are not bound by such limited thinking."

Yet Furion scowled aw he spat, "Legion-building, you defy the most important edict of the Second Founding."

Kieva replied candidly, "If it offends you try to consider this more like a mobile founding. New Chapters are constantly being spilt off or sent to reinforce existing armies, no standing force of Primaris Marines exists in the Crusade, we are spreading our forces across the galaxy as we go."

Toran was still disquieted as he argued, "Semantics, this is a de-facto Legion."

Kieva retorted, "Then you must accept that the Primarch is a Primarch and does as he wills. Nobody has ever been able to sway one of them from their course once set."

Suddenly Persion called out, "Captain, I have escorts inbound. Firestorm frigates, twenty-two of them, they are coming in weapons hot and demanding we identify ourselves immediately."

"Open a vox channel," Toran ordered and then declared, "This is the Thunderchild of the Storm Heralds Chapter, presenting ourselves as ordered. I am Captain Toran, recognition cypher Lexa-three-seven-alpha-Griffon."

The vox crackled and then a stern mortal voice issued forth, "Your ident codes are not cleared for approach. Transmit proper authorisation in the next sixty seconds or you will be destroyed."

Toran blinked in surprise but Kieva stepped forward and called out, "This is Primaris Captain Kieva, serial number Juno-three-ten-Roma-Wraith. Requesting clearance to proceed."

The vox crackled again and the voice uttered, "Timestamp is 312.010, provide the correct password of the day."

"Charon-Xenobia-Deimos," Kieva stated confidently.

The voice spoke again, "Alert-status?"

"Scorpion," Kieva countered.

The voice went silent for a few moments stated, "Message received, stand-by for authorisation,"

"Friendly bunch aren't they?" Novak scoffed.

Furion glared at him and spat, "Novak, shut-up."

Toran waited as the moments crept by, watching the bulk of the Crusade settling into orbit around Inerus. Their drive emissions cooled as the ships anchored into the gravity well but he noted their weapons were still trained upon his vessel. He didn't know what messages were being passed back and forth about them and he could only trust that all was in order, if not they wouldn't survive the first volley.

Suddenly the voice came back on the vox saying, "You are cleared to proceed Thunderchild. Move to the designated coordinates and prepare for a security inspection. Do not deviate from your assigned course, run out your weapons or attempt to communicate with any other ship or you will be destroyed."

"Understood," Toran replied, "May I ask your name?"

But the channel snapped close as the Firestorms moved to encircle the vessel. Toran drew in a breath and said, "Helm take us forward, slow and steady. Open the Occulus."

As the ship cruised into the heart of the fleet the armoured louvres over the great viewportal drew back to reveal the stars. Even as such close ranges the ships were little more than dots of light, in the vastness of the void a thousand kilometres was considered to be knife-fight range. Still Toran could reference the locations against the Hololith and as they moved towards the heavy battleships he read out the Battleship's names, "The Valhalla, the Gyptus, Red Kite, Spiteful, Wildkat, Blood of Iax, Old Ironside, Cadia Stands, the Verminus, Grand Duchess Arabella, Moskva, the Diplomacy at Gunpoint."

Novak suddenly exclaimed, "Look, look there's the Blade of Woe!"

Furion breathed in wonder, "The ship that commanded the Damocles Gulf Crusade and held the line at Ichar IV."

Kieva grinned slightly and said, "If you think that's impressive I suggest you look at the upper starboard quadrant. Behold: the Eternal Crusader."

Toran indeed looked at the readouts and saw the legendary Black Templar's flagship in all its majesty. It was a mighty ship indeed but he wasn't about to give Kieva the satisfaction of saying so and commented, "Not bad, but I've seen bigger."

Kieva started in surprise and spluttered, "But she's Glorianna class!"

Impudently Novak called over, "She's not our first Glorianna. We once laid eyes upon the Shadow of the Emperor, she was bigger than that."

Kieva frowned as he said, "But the Shadow was destroyed in the Heresy."

Toran shook his head and said, "Sadly the hulk was captured by Traitors and rebuilt, the Alpha Legion has been operating from her for years. We witnessed her prowling the Saint Karyl Trail, fully active and armed."

Kieva looked flabbergasted as he asked, "How did they accomplish that?"

"We didn't stop to ask," Toran teased, "She was busy shooting at us at the time."

Kieva stared for a moment then said, "You are mocking me, this is a jest."

Toran was about to refute that assertion but then Persion interrupted, "Captain… look at this!"

Toran returned his gaze to the Hololith and his jaw fell in awe. There before them lay the Macragge's Honour, flagship of the entire Crusade. The ancient vessel was twenty-six kilometres long, bristling with guns and launch bays. Her hull was a moving mountain in space, layers upon layers of armour plating and flying buttresses built over engines the size of a cruiser. Her prow cleaved space apart with its impossible girth and over her bridge flew a mammoth, spread-winged golden eagle. She was an awe-inspiring sight but no gaudy bauble, she was clearly built for war and her hull was riddled with scars, each one a mark that would have split a lesser vessel in two. Nothing Toran had ever seen could compare, not the Eternal Crusader, not the Shadow. She was an undisputed queen of the void, sovereign of all she surveyed and she effortlessly dominated her lesser kin.

Toran took in the length of the Macragge's Honour and breathed, "Now that is... impressive."

Kieva grinned smugly and said, "Bring us alongside her port lower quadrant, don't block her lines of fire. Reduce thrust to match velocity and ready gunships for transport."

Toran snapped out of his reverie at the presumption of his counterpart but confirmed, "Do it, smooth and steady men, let us show them that the Storm Heralds know how to handle a ship."

The crew-serfs hastened to obey and Kieva turned to say, "I will gather my Marines for transport back to the flagship."

"Do so," Toran stated, "Our delegation will meet you in the primary Thunderhawk bay."

Kieva nodded and then climbed off the dais before striding out of the bridge. Toran watched him go and then said, "Brothers, to me."

Swiftly the Marines came together and Novak exclaimed, "This is it, we're really going over there!"

But Toran paused as a thought occurred and he said, "One more thing, I didn't want to say this in front of Kieva but we should not mention our recent civil strife, say nothing of the True Believers nor the Primarch's Own."

Novak frowned and asked, "Why not?"

Toran replied, "A Chapter at war with itself, hardly our finest hour."

Furion added, "Let the Primarch see a humble and dutiful Chapter, seeking only to serve and committed to upholding his ideals."

Novak rolled his eyes but Persion agreed, "We spent a decade trying to forget that shame, best not pick at old wounds."

"Good," Toran stated, "Then let us depart Brothers, soon we shall meet our Gene-father in person."


	19. Chapter 19

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 19**

The ramp of the Thunderhawk lowered slowly, hitting the hangar floor with a soft thump. Beyond stretched a large landing bay, filled with busy industry. The serf crew went about their daily labours with due diligence, largely uninterested in the crowd of Astartes disembarking. First out was Captain Toran, followed by Furion and his command squad. With them came Kieva, Orath and Ajax, all shining in glorious raiment, their armour perfectly restored.

Novak looked about and remarked, "Surprisingly commonplace isn't it?"

Persion retorted, "What did you expect, the floors to be plated with gold?"

Ajax's gears clunked and he spat, "STOP WASTING TIME, WE HAVE AN AUDIENCE TO GET TO."

With that the party marched on but at the back trailed Arvael. The Librarian followed silently behind them but his mind was troubled. He was experiencing a sudden and unexpected headache and churning nausea, his psychic senses grating upon something he could not see. His vision seemed dimmed and his hearing muffled, it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before and it had fallen the second they had landed on the Macragges Honour.

The party strode through the landing bay to a massive entry door, bisected by a vertical slit and Toran said, "I assume there are some ceremonies to perform before we actually get to meet the Primarch?"

"In time," Kieva stated as he reached the door and pressed a rune, "We have many things to discuss first."

Furion sounded bemused as he stated, "Shouldn't we have been briefed on this earlier?"

Kieva said something in reply but Arvael couldn't hear a word. The large doors had begun to rumble open, but the Librarian suddenly felt like he was watching a pict-screen, like it was happening to someone else. Suddenly he realised he couldn't move as something cold and dark stole over him. It was an existential horror unlike anything he had ever experienced, a void in the fabric of reality. His psychic senses were screaming at him that beyond that door was nothing, not merely empty space but pure absolute nothingness, a hungry void that sucked in reality as a black hole would light. His training demanded he attack but his primal instincts screamed at him to run and he was locked in indecision. For the first time since his ascension Arvael froze, unable to process the dread that was overwhelming him.

Slowly the great doors split down the middle, revealing a dark void beyond, empty save for a single woman. She was slight in build, clad in silver armour and heavy furs while her head was shaved bald save for a long top knot. Half her face was hidden by a grilled mouthpiece but her eyes were dark pits of black horror that excreted pure nothingness, an aura of deadness that billowed out from her physical form and enveloped Arvael in its choking embrace. Time slowed for the Librarian and his ears seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool but in the back of his mind his voice squeaked a mantra of revulsion: Null Maiden, a Sister of Silence.

As if speaking from underwater he heard Toran exclaim in alarm, "What is this?!"

Kieva turned to face them and Arvael saw his mouth from the words, "Scorpion protocol."

Suddenly from the black darkness beyond the door came a mechanical roar as an immense war machine charged out of the darkness. It ran on two legs and had a reinforced Sarcophagus, while its hands bore a broadsword and a shimmering energy shield. It was plated in golden armour, engraved to a stupendous degree, emblazoned with the eagle and lightning bolts of Terra. It was as glorious as it was impossible; a Contemptor-Galatus of the Adeptus Custodes, and it was coming right at them.

Arvael watched in mute horror as Ajax lifted his weapon arms but before he could fire the other war machine slammed bodily into him, driving him back across the deck with the screeching of metal on metal. The others reacted as their training demanded, but even as blades left sheaths six golden warriors charged out of the darkness, moving to engage them in melee. They wore the most glorious auric plate, sublime in its craftsmanship, and advanced in ways that made Astartes armour look like crude apprentice's essays by comparison. They had high helms with plumes of horsehair and long flowing capes, while in their hands were energised spears adorned with bolters. They were the Adeptus Custodes and they leapt into the fray with a ferocity and power that was shocking to behold.

A Custodian with lightning bolt etchings over his faceplate came at Toran, who met the charge with the point of his relic blade. The Sword of Thiel blazed in his grip as the Captain yelled "Ambush!" Desperately he lashed out with a stroke that should have cut the Custodian in two but the shining paragon put his shoulder down and charged into Toran before the blow could land. A moment of twisting confusion followed then Toran was tumbling head over heels, his sword flying from his grip. Toran hit the deck hard, flat on his back and as he did so the Sword of Thiel was snatched from the air by the hefty gauntlet of Kieva who grasped it gleefully. Arvael gasped as the legendary relic weapon, whose legacy had been unsullied for five millennia, fell into the hands of a double-crossing outsider.

Suddenly Persion yelled in outrage and tried to attack the Custodian from the rear but the golden warrior spun on his heel and with one blow severed Persion's augmetic arm, taking his Friction Axe with it. Persion gaped comically at the sparking stump of his arm and said "Oh…" then the Custodian's boot caught him in the mid-riff and sent him tumbling to the deck beside his Captain.

Elsewhere Jediah snarled as he threw himself headfirst at a Custodes with a black cape, trying to tackle him to the ground. Arvael watched as the Fractal-edged short sword angled for a disembowelling strike, yet it failed to make contact. The Custodian reacted so fast that the Astartes seemed to be moving in slow motion, he caught Jediah by the arm and yanked hard so that the Astartes' own momentum sent him face first to the deck. He tried to roll over but instantly a glowing spear struck between his left pauldron and his neck, shattering his clavicle. The weapon bored through him with ease and penetrated the deck below, leaving Jediah pinned to the floor, as helpless as an insect fixed by a needle.

While that was occurring Novak had been duelling another Custodian, this one with a sword and shield of his own. The Champion's moves were as quicksilver, fluid and quick as he thrust and slashed in a dazzling display of skill. Yet every blow was countered with crisp efficiency, the golden warrior's swordsmanship so sublime that Novak was put to shame. Arvael watched as the pair duelled for three entire seconds, then there was a flash of silver and Novak's sword tumbled from his grip in a spray of blood, his opponent having thrust his blade into the back of the Champion's sword hand. Novak grunted and tried to bash his rival with his shield but was brought up short by the point of the sword resting in the nape of his neck, a hairsbreadth from slitting his throat.

Simultaneously Furion swung his Crozius at a bulky Custodian, who eschewed the traditional cape. The shining mace fell like a lightning bolt but one inch from contact was brought to a dead halt when the Custodian's open palm caught his wrist. Furion baulked in surprise and redoubled his efforts, pressing down with all his strength, but the Emperor's Companion didn't yield a millimetre. "Raaagh!" Furion yelled as he tried to throw a punch with his other fist but it was caught by a golden hand. The pair wrestled back and forth, locked in an embrace but then slowly, inch by inch Furion was forced to his knees, bowed down by the superior strength of the Custodian. Never had Arvael seen Furion bested in terms of strength but the paragon outclassed the Chaplain in every way, his gene-forging orders of magnitude greater than that of a crude Astartes.

Whilst the Chaplain fell Memnos threw himself at a shining Custodes with green flashes to his cape. He thrust his chainsword with all his might but the golden warrior merely leaned back slightly and let the spinning blades pass an inch from his helm. An almost lazy stroke came back from his arcing spear and the chainsword was cleaved in two, leaving the Apothecary staring mutely at the stump of his weapon. A follow-up blow from the butt of the spear caught him under the chin and sent him flying, crashing to the deck in a dazed heap.

Meanwhile Orath was charging at a Custodian with blazing sun inscriptions, the Terminator lashed out with his Thunder hammer but missed as the Custodes side-stepped. He swung horizontally only to miss again and he yelled, "Stand and fight damn you!" The golden warrior did not comply, unwilling to bother wasting his strength on the legendarily thick Tactical Dreadnought plate. Instead he ducked another blow from the Thunder hammer then sped past the Sergeant but as he did so his hands blurred.

Orath tried to look down but before he could comprehend what had happened the devices clamped to his chest activated, dragging him up into the air. Anti-grav mines had been placed across his plate and the Terminator found himself hoisted off the ground, dangling in mid-air like a fish on a hook. He thrashed and yelled but had no traction or leverage, he could not move nor fight, he could only hang there helplessly awaiting his fate.

While all this had occurred Ajax had been battling his golden counterpart, the twin machines lashing out at each other with titanic blows. Ajax's immense fist struck a blow that shattered the ornate engravings on the Custodes Dreadnought's sarcophagus but in return the darting warblade cut deeply into his flank, spilling black oil. Ajax angrily spun wide but the Contemptor-Galatus crisply danced away from the blow, moving with a speed and grace that hinted at the superior mechanisms within.

Ajax roared, "I'LL KILL YOU FOR THIS TREACHERY!" as he chased the dodging machine.

The other Contemptor cried in return, "IT IS YOU WHO WILL FALL!"

Ajax's anger surged and he threw himself at the golden machine, battering at its defences with staggering might. Great blows fell upon the Custodes war Machine, wrecking ball strikes that should have torn it to pieces, yet somehow the killing blow never landed. The Galatus elegantly dodged and countered with its warblade, chipping away at Ajax's hardened shell, slicing him apart one cut at a time. Ajax roared as he struck for the heart of his foe but the mighty fist was deflected off the glowing energy field of the shield, leaving him overextended.

Instantly the Galatus struck, moving with eye-watering speed its sword fell and in one strike severed Ajax's arm at the elbow. His crackling fist fell to the deck with a dull clang and Ajax stepped back, bewildered at his loss. His other arm came about, bringing up the assault cannon but the sword struck again and his other arm was sundered from his chassis. Ajax was left standing there, bereft of weapons or defences, unable to act as the Custodes war machine went low and smote his right leg. Ajax's limb fell apart under the blow and he toppled backwards, crashing onto the deck with a loud clatter. He was left there, helpless to move as the Contemptor-Galatus placed one foot upon his sarcophagus and growled, "YOU ARE DEFEATED."

Arvael had watched all this occur in stunned horror, he knew he should be angry and outraged but he couldn't feel anything at all. His senses were dazzled and confused by the Null aura surrounding him yet slowly had realised that while he had been frozen six Sisters of Silence had surrounded him, their greatswords held ready to strike. Arvael was a Space Marine, gene-forged and hardened but he recognised he was no match for the Witch-Seekers; at best he could kill only three or four before they ended him. Slowly Arvael raised his hands in submission, making no threatening gestures as one of the Null Maidens darted in and snatched away his Force-Morningstar.

Silence fell as Kieva strode over to where Toran lay, the Sword of Thiel clamped in his oversized gauntlet and his own power sword gripped in the other. He laid both blades across Toran's neck in a scissor vice, making it clear he could end the Captain's life with the merest twitch. Arvael could only gaze on in stunned disbelief as Toran croaked, "Why?"

The Primaris Captain sneered down at him and declared, "You and your Company are hereby placed under arrest for Heresies most foul."


	20. Chapter 20

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 20**

At first glance one could be forgiven for thinking they weren't really imprisoned. Their suite of sumptuous rooms more suited to a diplomatic envoy, furnished with ornate furniture and bedchambers. There were paintings of rural scenes upon the walls along with large mirrors in golden frames while small statuettes and candlesticks stood upon low plinths. The walls were clad in marble and lighting came from a lumen candelabra, which glowed warmly. Some might have been fooled into thinking they were not prisoners but Toran knew otherwise.

The suite was deep within the Macragge's Honour and had only one entrance, sealed firmly shut. The fittings were all flimsy wood, soft brass and low-density stone, nothing that could form a viable weapon against an armoured foe. The stone walls looked beautiful but a quick inspection told him that they were fitted with pict-devices and the candelabra hid vox-thieves. A thermographic examination with his augmetic eye had revealed that the walls concealed conduits carrying deadly amounts of electrical power. Yet the most obvious sign of their status were the two Custodes standing before the door, both of them holding their spears firmly.

Toran tried not to look at them as he sat on a wooden chair and fumed. He felt bare and naked without his armour, his plate and weapons having been stripped from him at gunpoint before being marched in here. At first he had tried to demand answers from the Custodes, seeking understanding of what had occurred but they had remained silent. He had cited his rank and authority but got nowhere, neither had threats, pleas or reasoning elicited a single word. They had remained silent and unmoving, impervious to his entreaties and uncaring for his presence. The only response they had made was when he had tried to step within six paces of them, at which point twitches of their spears had communicated that one more inch and they would end his life.

After two hours of effort Toran had quit trying to get answers from them and returned to his squad. Like him they had been stripped of their wargear, left only with coarse shrifts to clothe them. They were all equally irate, a fierce and smouldering anger burning in their eyes. There were two noticeable absences, Ajax and Arvael, each having been dragged away to their own imprisonment while the rest had been thrown in here.

Toran saw Memnos working on Jediah's injuries. They had not even been granted a proper med kit so the Apothecary had been forced to construct a crude splint from snapped chair legs and ripped bed sheets. Jediah's left side was swaddled in bandages, clamping his arm to his chest and holding his bones still while they rebuilt. Memnos stepped back and clapped his hands proclaiming, "Best I can do, your implants can handle any infection but try not to move your arm."

Jedaih's lip curled and he spat, "How am I supposed to fight like this?"

Memnos glared at him and said, "You're fortunate not to have lost that arm, your shoulder was torn to shreds."

Jediah snorted in disgust and Memnos turned to examined Persion's severed augmetic arm, he sighed "Nothing I can do about that. Novak let me look at that hand."

The Champion shook his head and tried to hide his wrist saying, "No need, it's healing."

"Don't be a pig-headed fool," Memnos uttered, "Give it here."

Reluctantly Novak extended his arm and Toran winced as he saw the hand was a mash of fingers and bones. Memnos sighed, "Damnation, that's going to set wrong. I'll have to rebreak it and reposition the tendons one by one."

Novak's burnt face creased as he implored, "Can't it wait?"

"Not if you ever want to hold a sword again," Memnos uttered, "Once it sets the damage will be permanent."

"Throne no," Persion commented, "We couldn't have that."

"I'm touched by your concern," Novak said.

"Don't be," Persion quipped, "I'm worried that you'll have to fall back on your bolter, everybody knows you're a lousy shot."

Nobody smiled at the feeble jest, Memnos stood up and walked to the Custodes and declared, "I need a sharp knife." There was no response from the Custodians so the Apothecary repeated, "This is a medical emergency, I need to treat his wounds." Again no response came forth, they were as still as statues, uncaring and unmoved. Memnos scowled and marched up to a mirror, he paused for a second then drove his fist into the pane and shattered it with a sharp crack. The Apothecary stooped to pick up a razor-sharp silver of glass then returned to Novak. The Champion held out his wrist and only the merest flinch of his eyes betrayed the excruciating pain as Memnos began cutting into his hand, resetting bones and pulling tendons straight.

Toran left him to it and turned his attention to Furion and Orath, both of whom seemed diminished and smaller without their armour. The Captain addressed them saying, "So… any ideas?"

Furion shook his head and said, "We are trapped, with no idea why we are imprisoned. Something is going on here we do not understand."

Orath growled, "Warp take that double-crossing Kieva, I told you not to trust him."

Toran replied, "Kieva is only one of our problems, we must focus on what we do next."

"I'd like to be locked in a room with him, give me a plank with a nail in it and I'll make it slow and painful," Orath hissed.

"Waste not your strength on idle threats," Furion reprimanded, "Save it for something useful."

Orath sneered, "How can you two be so calm?!"

But Toran barked, "Do not mistake our focus for docility; we are as angry as you. Kieva stood on the bridge and arranged an ambush before my eyes. Scorpion, he said the word to the perimeter guards, from that moment we were betrayed. I am furious but I will not waste my passion, we may only get one shot and we will need our rage when it comes."

Orath settled back but Furion crossed his arms and said, "So we return to the question: what now?"

Toran sighed, for he had no idea but at that very moment one of the Custodes stiffened and said, "You have visitors."

Toran leapt to his feet in surprise and watched as the door between the Custodes slid back to reveal a most surprising sight.

Standing in the light of the corridor were two warriors, one tall, the other Toran's height. They were clad in dark plates, with a smoky texture, save for their arms and pauldrons which were a pale grey. They had pale faces with black eyes, the marks of Corax's gene-line. Their emblem was a feline predator in profile, caught in the pounce with its fangs and claws exposed. The taller one was undoubtedly a Reiver, with a cruel face but it was the other that made Toran's jaw fall in surprise. He was adorned with complicated knotwork designs while from his belt hung scrolls and skulls, his armour boasting a psychic hood and one arm tainted blue, in which he held a ram-skull topped stave. Toran's jaw fell in astonishment and he gasped, "Shade-Seer Imix?"

The pair stepped within, letting the door slide shut and Imix bowed deeply saying, "Greetings my friends, Light of the Dawn be upon you."

"What…" Toran spluttered, "What are you doing here?"

Imix grinned slightly and said, "I have come to enlighten you, it was felt a friendly face would be better."

Toran was still dumbstruck by shock and uttered, "How did you get here?"

Imix responded coolly, "We have always been here, serving the Crusade in our own way."

Suddenly Orath butted in to say, "Excuse me, but who the hell is this?"

Toran glanced round then remembered that Orath had not met Imix before, he drew in a breath and said, "Sergeant Orath, meet Imix K'awiil, Chief Librarian of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter."

Orath blinked as he said, "The Smoke Jaguars? A name to be respected, you fought with us at Angle's Redoubt."

Imix nodded and gestured to his companion saying, "Meet Xama Ek, first-born of our new Primaris."

Toran was bursting with questions but Imix was an honoured ally, worthy of respect so he asked, "Your Chapter serves in the Crusade?"

Imix confirmed, "The Great One has found uses for us, we are honoured to be able to demonstrate our worth."

Furion asked, "Doing what?"

Xama Ek broke his silence to say, "Things no one else can do."

Imix frowned as said, "Forgive him, he is young and brash, he knows not humility."

Toran couldn't hold himself back anymore and exclaimed, "Imix, what the hell is going on around here?!"

Imix sighed deeply then said, "Regrettably your Chapter has been marked for censure. Your reputation precedes you; talk abounds of your practices, your deviation from the ideals of the Adeptus Astartes. Your personages are under arrest and your ship lies under the shadow of a thousand guns, your blood-kin are imprisoned as you are."

Furion's face fell as he said, "Emperor Worship, this is about the Emperor Worship isn't it?"

"Sadly yes," Imix replied.

Toran started, "But we have abandoned such practices, we now stand as a beacon of secular reason."

"How very convenient for you," Xama Ek spat.

Orath growled, "Do not mock us, we had a civil war over the matter. Good Brothers died fighting such perfidy."

Toran added, "My own Standard Bearer, Bylan, died fighting to preserve our ideals."

Imix sighed, "Woe abounds, he was an innocent soul, alas from such strife does your present concerns flow. A number of refugees came to the Crusade some years ago, spreading the word of heresy in your ranks, they are led by a Chaplain named Megaro."

"Megaro, I know that name," Toran uttered in surprise, "He was Chaplain of Ninth Company, a True Believer, that's what the Emperor Worshippers called themselves. He disappeared in the aftermath of the fighting, never to be seen again."

Furion added, "Are you telling us he's been here the whole time?"

Xama answered, "Yes, spreading scandalous tales of your treachery."

Toran felt his anger building and he said, "So Kieva took it upon himself to arrest us."

Imix's face was as stone and he said, "Kieva… did not act alone, he seeks recognition above all, he would not act without orders."

Toran caught the implication and said, "Who gave the order?"

Imix was silent for a long moment then confessed, "He acted at the command of the Great One."

Toran's knees went weak and he could barely breathe, Roboute Guilliman had ordered their arrest, he could scarcely believe it. Toran's idol and greatest hero was set against them, it was inconceivable. His dreams of meeting the Primarch and perhaps earning his respect shattered, revealed to be nothing but childish fantasies. He had been acting the fool and blundered into a trap.

Toran slumped as he whispered, "Guilliman... wants us dead."

Yet Xama snorted, "If he wanted you killed, you would be dead already."

"Then what does he want?" Orath inquired.

Imix looked thoughtful as he explained, "He wants you… broken. Publically humiliated, disbanded and scattered to the nine vectors. He wants to send a message to the others."

"Others, what others?" Furion pressed.

Imix elaborated, "All is not well in the Crusade, many Chapters are gathered under the Great One's banner but all are accustomed to following their own paths. Ten thousand years of autonomy breed proud souls. High Marshall Hellbrecht is especially wayward and feels free to interpret his orders in ways that irk the Great One."

"But we would not dare to do so," Toran claimed, "We would have followed Guilliman's merest whim!"

Xama snorted, "You think that matters? The Great One wants to make a public example of you and so put everyone else in their place."

Toran's hearts were as ash but defeat was not in his nature so he asked, "What are we to do?"

"Know you are not without friends," Imix explained, "The Black Templars resist any diminishment of the Astartes' autonomy. The Ashen Knights speak highly of you as do the Smoke Jaguars."

"You will dare to stand with us?" Furion asked.

"He's not our Primarch," Xama retorted, "And many have tried to defy his will."

"Has…" Toran stammered, "Has anybody actually succeeded?"

"Not a single one," Imix replied, "None may stand in the path of a Primarch's will, but we can still dare the impossible."

Toran sighed then said, "What do you need us to do?"

Imix told him, "For now, do nothing. You have friends out there arguing your case, trust in us."

Toran nodded and said, "We are powerless, it seems our fate is in your hands."

Imix agreed, "I will not rest until your good name is cleared."

Furion added, "One more thing, we have a Dreadnought and a Librarian."

Imix accepted this saying, "I will visit them too. Until I return stay here and do not cause trouble. Know I am doing all I can, the Storm Heralds will not pass quietly into the night while I draw breath."


	21. Chapter 21

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 21**

The argument had been raging for some time, a back and forth diatribe of two deep, transhuman voices. It filled the quarters with angry retorts, accusations and reprimands. Lieutenant Smyth heard the words from where he was standing upright in his armour but tried to pay no attention to them. The speakers were but venting, letting out their frustrations in a mutual fit of bile.

Smyth tuned out their shouting as he looked around the chambers; these were Captain Kieva's own quarters, a sparse and functional dwelling as befits a warrior trained on Mars. There were cabinets filled with data-slates and tables for strategic maps, while a vox set in one corner squatted next to a small Mechanicus shrine unto the Omnissiah. An armour stand held Kieva's ponderous Gravis armour while a weapons bench held a pair of power swords. One was the Captain's functional Martian blade, bearing the stamp of the weapon-wrights of Anseris Mons. The other was Toran's captured relic blade, an electro-magnetic longsword with a golden crossguard. Smyth could not help but admire its flawless workmanship and compact energy field generator, yet the way it had been taken gnawed at him. Luring the Storm Herald's into a trap, double-crossing them and leaving them to rot, grated on his sensibilities. He could not bring himself to speak against his orders but in his innermost thoughts the accusation lurked that it had been wrong.

He was pulled from his musings as harsh voice barked, "Arrested?! They're supposed to be dead!" That was the opinion of Chaplain Megaro, the ex-Storm Herald who had told them of the heresy in his former Chapter. Smyth turned his eyes to regard the Chaplain, assessing the black armour which was adorned with morbid skulls and macabre flourishes, noticeably lacking weaponry of any kind. His face was hard and unforgiving, with a zealot's look in his eye and a set to his jaw spoke of his intransigence. Smyth knew Megaro held onto grudges like they were precious treasures, finding the Marine to be blinkered and short-sighted.

Across from him Kieva stood with his arms crossed. He was clad in a loose robe but being a Primaris proved still taller than the Chaplain in full plate. Kieva looked irate as he replied, "The Lord Commander's orders were specific, capture the Storm Heralds, do not kill them."

Megaro's hands twitched as if longing for a weapon as he spat, "I want them dead, all of them."

Kieva sniffed, "Your wants are not my concern."

Smyth stepped in then to say, "Toran and his compatriots are under arrest. They will be disbanded shortly and that will be the end of the Storm Heralds. Why are you so angry?"

Megaro turned to fix him with a burning glower and he hissed, "Those curs killed our dream, the vision of a just and strong warrior order. They slew Lessall and Samect, the rightful leaders of my Chapter and they drove me from my home. My followers are the last of the True Believers but we have nothing left, Toran and his ilk took it all from us. They even tricked Honourable Ajax into joining their cause; those damnable Primarch's Own stole our greatest champion and turned him against us."

Smyth saw an opportunity to needle the Chaplain and said, "He's here you know, the one you call Ajax, he's lying in pieces in a vault.

Megaro blinked and uttered in surprise, "Ajax is here? Maybe, maybe I could talk him around… but no. No, it's too late for that, the Storm Heralds are dead, those pretenders wearing our colours turned it all to ash."

Kieva brushed off the sentiment and said, "The Lord Commander is adamant, the Storm Heralds will be disbanded. An Edict of Obliteration will erase them from history and a newly commissioned Primaris Chapter will claim Lujan II, assuming responsibility for the Saint Karyl Trail."

"Disbanded?!" Megaro spat, "It is an insult, so long as those curs live I am shamed! If you won't do it then give me a blade and I will go and take my revenge myself."

"You will do nothing," Kieva growled, "The Smoke Jaguars are causing problems, citing every legal loophole they can find. The Black Templars are with them as are the White Scars; they grow concerned they are losing their autonomy. Thankfully the Imperial Fists stand with Guilliman as do the Fire Lords; they would pick any side that opposes the Smoke Jaguar's position. The rest are sitting and waiting to see who will win."

Megaro lip curled and he hissed, "You truly are a rear-echelon officer, Kieva, and you always will be. Your dreams of promotion are farcical; you lack the steel to lead Space Marines."

Hastily Smyth stepped in to explain, "The Storm Heralds will be crushed but the Lord Commander cannot risk alienating his allies. Half the old Chapters are threatening to walk out of the Crusade if they think he seeks to quash their hereditary rights. Guilliman needs the Storm Heralds convicted by the book, legally and in accordance with the Lex Imperialis, but they will still be erased."

Megaro snorted in disgust but said, "At least give me the Sword of Thiel."

Kieva frowned, "By the Red Sands, why would I do that?"

Megaro stated, "It is a sacred legacy of my order, a burden and an honour. That it fell into the hands of a knave like Toran was a disgrace, the first sign that everything was going to hell."

Kieva shook his head and said, "After what you pulled trying to break into Guilliman's presence, you are not going to get anything. Maybe when this is done you might be sent back to the front lines to die in battle, but until then you will stay under my guard."

Megaro sneered in response, "I'd like to be escorted back to my cell now."

"As you will," Kieva replied, "Guards!"

The far door slid back to reveal a pair of Intercessors and Megaro stalked from the room, his fury coming off him in waves. Smyth watched him go and said, "How could a hearty Chapter like the Storm Heralds produce a zealot like that?"

"Sympathy for the enemy?" Kieva queried with an icy tone.

Candidly Smyth replied, "They fought well and they seemed uninterested in preaching. If anyone is a fanatic, it is Megaro."

"What did I tell you about fraternisation?" Kieva spat, "You knew the mission going in, our orders were that the Storm Heralds were to be brought to heel and imprisoned, to await censure."

Smyth glared at the door and uttered, "I still don't trust Megaro."

Kieva wearily sighed, "How many times must I say that he's under control. Cease worrying at dead circuits."

Smyth turned to face his Captain and said, "But are we not forgetting something?"

Kieva frowned as he remarked, "The Storm Heralds are captured, their fate is sealed. Megaro and his little band are going nowhere and you and I shall be richly rewarded. What else is there?"

"Inerus," Smyth stated, "We are all forgetting the planet below us."

"What of it?" Kieva demurred, "It's dead and gone, who cares about that?"

Smyth shook his head and said, "We filed a report but you know it answered nothing. The undead, the tragedies that befell us, are we really going to pretend none of it mattered?"

Kieva glared at him and hissed, "Don't lose focus; this triumph gives us a chance to ascend to the Primarch's court. We are looking at promotion to high command Smyth, a chance to make a lasting mark upon the galaxy. This is our opportunity; don't cause a system crash over trivial details."

Smyth knew an argument would get him nowhere so instead tried to be sly by saying, "But what if we found something that could greatly boost our prospect? We could be the heroes who uncovered a vile conspiracy."

Kieva growled curtly, "Hope, Smyth, always with the impossible hope. It makes you chase dreams when your eyes should be on your surroundings. Leave hope behind and embrace reality."

Smyth protested, "But…"

Irately Kieva spat, "End this line! I do not like arguing with you but you must learn to put this impossible hope aside, it's holding you back. Focus on what you can realistically achieve and take what you can get, for example, look at this."

Kieva lent over and picked up Toran's Relic blade before handing it over. Smyth was surprised but hesitantly took the weapon in both hands and gave it a practice swing; he found it to be remarkably well balanced yet with enough weight to lend it real stopping power and boasting far superior reach to his own gladius. He could tell this was the weapon of a champion, one that would turn any average swordsman into a lethal combatant. He performed few practice swings, admiring its deadly grace and said, "A fine weapon indeed."

Abruptly Kieva stated, "Keep it."

Smyth blinked in surprise and said, "Captain?"

Kieva picked up a matching scabbard from the bench and said, "The Storm Heralds won't ever get to use it again, so you might as well have it. Consider it spoils of war and use it with my blessing. Now, return to your duties."

Smyth knew the weapon was but a token to dismiss his concerns but silently accepted the scabbard with a bow. He sheathed the blade and then fixed it around his hip before saluting and taking his leave. The scabbard clanged against his thigh a couple of times as he walked, the length of the sword being unfamiliar to him. He scowled as it clipped his leg and he wondered how Toran had coped, frankly between the sword, that cape and his rank chains it was a miracle Toran managed to walk without jangling like a set of keys. Smyth scowled at the thought of their captives but he adjusted the fit of the scabbard until it no longer obstructed his movement.

Fuming under his breath Smyth marched on, passing various Primaris Marines in their daily duties. He paid them no mind as he wended his way through the compartments of the Macragge's Honour, his course direct and deliberate. Soon he arrived at a gloomy cargo lift and he stepped within, pulling down the cage before pressing a rune to make it ascend. A few moments passed and then from behind him a voice uttered, "Nice sword."

Smyth glanced back into the shadows, which parted as someone stepped into the light. In the corner the silhouette of Sergeant Ingvis appeared, the Reiver looking as sullen as ever. Smyth turned to face him and said, "Captain Kieva didn't listen."

Ingvis snorted, "No surprise there."

Smyth shook his head and said, "Everybody is so focussed on the Storm Heralds that they are forgetting about Inerus."

"Kieva's always been hungry for advancement," Ingvis stated, "He doesn't care about some hardscrabble world when there's a chance to ascend to High Command."

Smyth bristled at such open criticism of his superior but he couldn't deny it and agreed, "Inerus is a problem and he wants it gone, they all do. The planet will be subjected to the Exterminatus and the whole thing will be dumped in a recycling unit and forgotten about."

Ingvis looked thoughtful as he murmured, "Then it's up to us to remind everyone and make them pay attention."

Smyth's eyes narrowed as he queried, "How?"

Ingvis looked nonchalant as he said, "It's easy to ignore a problem when you can't see it but harder to ignore when it's in your face. I say we go back to the planet and drag a few undead up here for… examination."

"Are your processors glitching?!" Smyth cursed, "Bring those things on board, security would never allow it."

Ingvis retorted, "There are quarantine bays, take the specimens straight there and seal them in. Nobody would be able to ignore them then."

Smyth shook his head and sighed, "It sounds good but it's impossible, we would never get clearance to return to the planet."

Ingvis smiled slightly and said, "I wasn't implying that we ask for permission."

Smyth knew he should be shocked by the illicit suggestion but strangely he found himself agreeing. The situation was dire and nobody wanted to do anything, he had to act, even if it cost him his rank he had to do it. Reluctantly Smyth nodded and said, "Very well but only a small party, your squad, myself and Sergeant Yones' squad. No one else can know."

Ingvis replied, "I'll meet you in landing bay one-forty-one in three hours."

Smyth stopped the lift and let himself out as he declared, "Three hours, let us hope we find something useful down there or we will all be sent for servitor conversion."


	22. Chapter 22

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 22**

Deep within the Macragge's Honour there was a cell unlike any other. It was a dark and cold environment, bare of any features or furnishings. Four black walls with only one heavy-set door and a single lumen orb and a small hole in the floor for bodily waste. Yet that was only its physical features, to the Psyker it was a complicated puzzle box. The walls were lined with obsidian and inlaid with complex wards of blessed silver. Layers upon layers of baffles created non-Euclidian snares for the unwary probe while psychic sluices syphoned off any excess Warp energy a prisoner could summon.

Arvael sat in a plain shrift with his back to the cold wall and admired the workmanship, an elegant and sophisticated trap that would be impossible for him to break, no matter how much power he summoned. Normally the Librarian would have been outraged at his imprisonment, furious at the betrayals, but right now he was glad for anything that meant he was kept away from the Null Maidens. For a Psyker imprisonment was a blessed relief compared to the agony of standing next to a Sister of Silence.

Arvael had read of the Sisters of Silence during his training, that near defunct organisation of anti-psykers. For millennia they had been fragmentary and scattered, one step from extinction and almost forgotten in the vastness of the galaxy. Yet the Noctis Aeterna and the return of the Primarch had seen them enjoy a renaissance, gathered together once more as a valued fighting force. Arvael had read reports of their recent battles with Chaos and the potency of their null aura upon the Daemonic, but those dry and dreary missives had failed to capture the utter loathing and existential horror they provoked in a Psyker. To stand next to one had been worse than being struck deaf and blind, it had been the death of his soul, all his capacity to experience emotion rendered moot. He had been cut off from the wellspring of his being, exposed to the harshness of reality like a candle in a rainstorm. For a moment all Arvael's self-deceptions and mental defences had been stripped bare, his utter insignificance in the scope of the cosmos and the vast swells of Deep Time made clear. It was an experience he never wanted to repeat.

After he had been thrown in here Arvael had passed the time carefully rebuilding his mental architecture with mantras and exercises taught to him during his training. He began with the foundations of his identity and moral imperatives, then reorganised his memories into their carefully selected slots. Then he gathered his psychic abilities, meticulously checking each aspect was undamaged. Like a well-organised warehouse Arvael sorted his mind into its proper order and only when he was satisfied that he was restored did he allow himself to examine his memories of the battle.

The memory was painful but he persisted and allowed himself to experience the fight again. Feelings of shock, betrayal and rage were set aside, non-productive and distracting, so he focussed on facts. He saw again the Custodian Guards in action and was amazed at how easily they defeated the Storm Heralds. The implications of that were troubling; they had gone out of their way to match strength to strength and skill to skill so to prove their superiority. Even Jediah had been outmatched, his viciousness surpassed by his opponent's.

Arvael created a mental simulation to switch the various opponents around but his conclusion was the same, one on one the Astartes would have lost any fight. He was forced to consider that the Custodes were simply better than the Storm Heralds. Hardly surprising, the Emperor's Companions were forged to higher gene-standards than Astartes, they were meant to be better, that was the whole bloody point of them. Yet something about that analysis sat ill with Arvael and he replayed the fight over and over, looking for what he was missing. Nothing leapt out at him so he ran Codex doctrines in his head and then he found it.

Individually the Custodes were superior, no doubt about it, but they had no concept of teamwork. Each one of them was a lone hero fighting his own battle, they did not function as a squad, they were not soldiers. Arvael realised then that their strategy had been to split the Storm Heralds up and take them one on one, not letting the Astartes unite into a Brotherhood. Arvael adjusted his mental simulation and assumed that the Storm Heralds had been given time to unite and fight as a team. This was much better, he calculated that fighting together their odds of success rose to almost forty percent, though even in his best case scenario the casualty rate would still have been five out of eight lives, not counting Ajax.

Arvael was suddenly distracted from his introspection as his psychic senses tingled. His perceptions expanded and he beheld traces of psychic power, bleeding through the wards from the outside. A frown crept over his brow, even though they were intended for containment the wards surrounding him were potent, nothing should be able to penetrate those defences. Arvael rose to his feet as the sensation grew stronger and stronger, a baleful power penetrating the wards with ease. He knew an aura was breaking through the wards but it was unlike any he had seen before. To his perceptions the aura was like standing in a tropical jungle, the blazing sun hidden by leaves above but the weight of its presence unbearably sweltering nonetheless, a choking miasma of broiling heat. Arvael heard the locks of his cell open and the door swung open, then a figure appeared, one in smoky armour and bearing a ram-skull topped staff.

Arvael's back slammed into the wall and his shoulders tried to dig their way through as he beheld the sun revealed in all its glory, blindingly brilliant and achingly painful to look at. The being before him had a physical presence but that was almost a secondary concern, the psychic emissions radiating off this one choking out all other perceptions, a furnace of raw power that made Arvael's own abilities seem a mere firefly in comparison. The Librarian's natural instincts screamed at him to run, to be anywhere other than in the presence of this blazing inferno and only his rigid discipline kept him on his feet.

Then to his complete surprise the figure bowed and said, "Light of the Dawn be upon you, I am Imix K'awiil, Shade-Seer of the Smoke Jaguars."

"You, you…" Arvael gasped in disbelief, "You're…"

The other cocked a pale head and said, "Come now, you are the tyro of Echeb are you not? Has the Spirit of the Storm taught you not manners?"

Arvael could hardly believe this individual was capable of mundane speech, it was like being addressed by the noonday sun, but he forced his mind into mundane realms, compelling his body to bow and say, "I apologise and offer greetings. I am Arvael, Lexmechanic of the Storm Heralds."

Imix accepted this and turned to take in the cell, he stepped inside and poked the walls with a ceramite-clad finger saying, "Poor ways to accommodate a seer, this will not do."

Arvael realised he was instinctively stepping counter to Imix, his body trying to keep as much distance as possible between them. He was sliding along the wall; hands pressed firmly to the black stone, but forced himself to stop it with a surge of willpower. He swallowed slightly then said, "How… how may I help you?"

Imix's mind flickered ever so slightly and Arvael felt the lash of telepathic power billow over him, his mental defences creaking under the strain. Arvael had met potent psykers in his time, his own Master Echeb was a terrifyingly mighty Beta-level, but Imix K'awiil was beyond even that, far beyond. Yet physically Imix answered, "I bring word of your Captain, he lives and so do your blood-kin. Your living-dead Ajax is particularly wrathful."

Arvael realised he was going to get nowhere gawping and forced himself to concentrate on the mundane aspects of their conversation and said, "Ajax lives?"

"Indeed," Imix stated, "His anger waxes strong, a good sign, given his condition."

"You know about that?" Arvael queried.

Imix sounded nonchalant as he said, "Dream-walking is my gift, though the stars whisper futures to me when they see fit. Yours is to behold the world, to know what is, you are a Seer as I am a Prophet."

Arvael gulped, "You can read my abilities so easily?"

But Imix smiled mockingly and replied, "No, Echeb wrote to me of you, we kept in touch after the defeat of the Great Devourer. I oft find mystical prophecies work best when based on hard facts."

Arvael couldn't help but chuckle at that, the remark shaking him from his awestruck state. He stepped from the wall and said, "I assume you are here to tell me what's going on?"

Imix nodded and explained, "Your Chapter is caught in a tanglevine The Great One seeks to humble you, to make an example. He has heard of your beliefs and his wrath is mighty; worship of the Sun-Emperor among the Astartes is not welcome in his House."

Arvael frowned and said, "But we don't worship the Emperor… well not anymore. And I know of Chapters that do, the Black Templars for one and some Primaris too."

Imix shook his head and explained, "And that fact irks the Great One no end. It retreads the path of the thrice-accursed butcher of Calth, may his name be forever forgotten. The Great One has accepted the common man needs faith, nothing can change that now, but for the Astartes that is too far. Yet he cannot break the others without imperilling his own seat, so he seeks smaller prey."

"Wait," Arvael said with a frown, "Are you saying the Storm Heralds are nothing but a political football in this?"

Imix raised an eyebrow and commented, "I know not that term, but be warned this is no game. Your fates hang in the balance."

Arvael dared to ask, "So are you here to free us?"

Imix's face darkened and he answered, "This will not come to pass."

Desperately Arvael urged, "But with your power it would be easy, who could possibly stand against you?"

Imix's raw power swelled and his blazing aura darkened with the crimson aspect of anger as he spat, "Know you not that power is meaningless without control?! I could do anything, but that does not mean I should."

Arvael quickly lowered his head and said, "I apologise, I was rash and foolish. Truly knowledge is having the ability to do something, but wisdom is understanding that you should not do it."

Slowly Imix's aura cleared and he remarked, "I see Echeb has taught you something, there is a soul who understands the perils of the Psyker. Remember his words always and you shall grow into wisdom. I see your potential and you are mightier than you know, but the Psyker must be modest in all things, learn to sip from the Warp, for in its depths lies poison."

Arvael accepted this and said, "The name of the Smoke Jaguars is respected by all… will you speak for us?"

Imix confirmed, "This is already so. We speak your names in the halls of the mighty and make them remember you."

"You're… kicking up a stink about us?" Arvael ventured.

"Such a language you speak," Imix commented with a smile, "So brutal and direct yet so concise. Yes, our Shade-Lord, K'inich Yux, is making much trouble. The Great One will not find you so easy to dismiss, he has already been forced to pay more concern to you than he ever planned."

Arvael exhaled loudly and said, "Then we can but wait."

"Yes and no," Imix replied, "I have been granted the right to escort you from this cell, so long as you give me your word to attempt no escape."

Arvael grasped that was not a request and replied, "Very well I accept, I swear not to attempt escape."

"You word is your bond," Imix stated but added; "I shall hold you to it, do not doubt that I shall be watching and ready if you prove false. Now walk with me and tell me of the oceans of your homeworld, I need to know more of this civil war your Captain is so shamed by."

Reluctantly Arvael followed Imix out but in truth the threat had hardly been necessary. He was certain that any hint of deception would have been instantly apparent to the Shade-Seer, in fact he suspected there was nowhere in orbit or on the world below he could possibly run where Imix's mind could not find him.


	23. Chapter 23

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 23**

Arvael struggled to keep up as Imix led them down a wide spinal corridor of the Macragge's Honour. It was a plain but busy thoroughfare, crammed with Transhumans of various orders. Imperial Fists marched past Raven Guard, Salamanders stalked past Marines Malevolent with glares of mutual loathing while White Scars spoke furtively in their native tongue. There were scores of different Chapters represented here and all of them seemed to be trying to act the proudest, as if the others were beneath their notice.

Arvael felt underdressed in his shrift but most of his attention was spent on wondering how nobody seemed to notice Imix walking past. His power radiated off him in waves, startlingly bright to the psychically gifted. Yet the Shade-Seer acted as if all was normal, pacing steadily along like just any other Space Marine. Only other Librarians reacted to his presence, giving him an extremely wide berth, as if that would make any difference should his gaze fall upon them.

Arvael's mental defences felt sunburnt from walking so close to the Shade-Seer but to distract himself he asked, "How many Chapters are in this Crusade?"

Imix slowed slightly to say, "Many come to fight alongside the Great One, all wishing to have their names counted among the mighty. Yet they bring many conflicting ideas with them, differing strategies and histories… and grudges."

Arvael stepped aside to avoid a marching squad of Unnumbered Sons and queried, "All is not well?"

Imix nodded as he said, "The Great One holds this Crusade together with sheer will, his word commands all. Yet some resent such authority, many long for the days when they set their own paths. Most of all the existence of the Primaris causes great offence."

"The Primaris are not popular?" Arvael inquired.

Imix answered, "No they are not, many think they are here to replace us and their arrogant claim that no Primaris has ever fallen to Chaos is hubris of the highest order. Some Chapter Masters tried to refuse to allow them into their ranks, though they wilted when the Great One turned his full attention upon them."

Arvael guessed, "So Guilliman's rule is contested, there are those who seek to supplant him."

Imix snorted in derision, "No other could dream to lead this Crusade, but still many chafe at being reduced to serving. There are those who threaten to walk out, should their rights be trampled. The Great One performs miracles every day keeping them all in the fold, even I do not grasp the depths of his mind's working."

Suddenly Arvael spied a party of Astartes headed their way, clad in red armour with yellow greaves. Their gauntlets were black and their icon was a clenched fist among burning flames. The leader of the party bore the heraldry of a Chapter Master and he had a scornful face covered in old burn marks. At his side marched a pair of serf-helots, bearing an Eviscerator with built-in nozzles for Promethium flames to be ejected. He was accompanied by four Honour Guards with blackened axes and combat shields that concealed single-shot hand flamers and melta pistols.

Arvael paused in respect for this one's rank but they ignored him as the Lord halted before them and spat, "Imix K'awiil, still sulking about in the shadows I see."

Arvael blinked in surprise that any would dare insult the Shade-Seer; it was like seeing a rodent taunt a great jungle predator. Yet Imix's eyes narrowed as he responded in kind, "Jaric Phoros, you seem pleased this day, have the Fire Lords been burning women and children alive again?"

The Master of the Fire Lords face creased as he growled, "Typical Smoke Jaguars, always unwilling to get your hands dirty. Always willing to let others do the real fighting."

"Better that than wasting strength blundering about," Imix retorted, "You make so much noise that you scare your quarry away and so miss the real target."

Phoros disdainfully replied, "I think you tried to insult me, but all I hear is the whispering of the wind, inconsequential and worthless."

"We shall see who is worthless," Imix stated coolly, "On the fields of battle."

"Pah, I doubt anyone will see you until the fighting is over," Phoros snorted then he strode off, trailing his Honour Guards behind him.

Arvael was confused and asked, "What the Frak was that?"

Imix sighed, "Our two Chapters have a history, of the worst kind. A feud so old no one really remembers whence it began."

Arvael probed Imix's aura and found no trace of anger or resentment, he seemed calm and at peace. Bemusedly he ventured, "They don't know, do they? Nobody knows who you are, what you are really capable of."

Imix confirmed, "Better to be that way, the Fire Lords are proud and zealous. The Sun-Emperor requires bold hearts and strong blades, to flaunt my gifts would only shake their conviction."

Arvael faced the Shade-Seer directly, daring to stare into the burning sun of his power and uttered, "You could break their minds wide open without even trying. Why do you humble yourself so?"

Imix smiled wistfully as he explained, "It is refreshing to receive such honest hatred. For a moment I can pretend not to tower over others, to be a mere warrior with no greater concerns. I imagine for an instant, that I was born not with this curse and I am a mundane soul."

Arvael understood that, no Psyker had ever avoided the futile dream that they had not been cursed with their abilities. He resumed walking as he said, "Still a feud is a liability, have your Chapters never tried to resolve it?"

Imix replied pointedly, "Does your order not hold its own hatreds?"

"We have had incidents with other Chapters but no real feuds as such, until recently the Saint Karyl Trail was merely an obscure backwater," Arvael explained but then he sighed, "In truth we Storm Heralds have always been our own worst enemies."

Imix frowned slightly and uttered, "I hear of your civil war. The fugitive Megaro paints a picture of faith versus blasphemy, a noble order at war over the Divinity of the Sun-Emperor."

Dejectedly Arvael corrected him, "It was never about Emperor Worship, well not really. Our Chief Apothecary and High Chaplain, Lessall and Samect, were no longer content to serve, they wanted to rule. The True Believers dreamed of carving out their own empire among the stars and crowning themselves as kings. Captain Toran led the resistance and gathered all who opposed such beliefs. His faction cleaved to the teachings of the Codex, holding to Roboute Guilliman's decree that Astartes are meant to serve and defend humanity, they even called themselves the Primarch's Own."

"Ironic," Imix remarked, "They followed the Great One's teachings and now he himself seeks their end."

"If only they had known," Arvael sighed, "They may not have bothered fighting at all."

"You speak of them separately to yourself," Imix pointed out, "Why is that?"

Sadly Arvael explained, "We Librarians played no part of the war. We could have stopped the fighting but in doing so would have made ourselves overlords of the Chapter. We would have reigned over the Storm Heralds, which meant ultimately the Warp would have ruled, we could not allow that to happen. Yet our kin have never forgiven us, they still resent us."

"Good," Imix stated briskly, "Wariness of the Warp is essential, none can risk becoming too familiar with its ways."

Arvael sighed, "I sacrificed much to be a Librarian, friendship and comradery, trust and Brotherhood. The others tolerate me but there are none in the galaxy I can truly call a friend."

Imix smiled slightly and said, "Then perhaps there is someone you should meet."

Arvael frowned in confusion but then dead ahead he spied a pair of warriors. One was the unmistakable sight of a Custodian Guard, with his energised spear held in one hand, yet it was the other whom caught Arvael's attention. He was armoured in Storm Herald blue with a resentful face, a face Arvael knew.

Arvael's jaw fell as he ground to a halt and gasped, "Fiett… is that you?"

The other looked around up at his call, blinking in shock as he uttered, "Arvael, what are you doing here?"

The Librarian could scarcely believe his eyes, his old friend Fiett was on board. He and Fiett had been scout-novices together, training and fighting as squadmates. Of course that had been before Arvael's power had been uncovered and he had been fated for a life of isolation and mistrust. To see Fiett was a reminder of a simpler time, when Arvael had expected to become a Brother-Initiate and nothing more.

Arvael took in the sight of his old friend and blurted out, "Fiett, I can't believe it."

Fiett eyed him back and exclaimed, "Neither can I."

Then the pair of them clasped wrist to wrist in a warrior's grip and Arvael grinned as he said, "It's good to see you."

Fiett let go of his hand and looked abashed saying, "I'm surprised to hear you say that, we hardly parted on the best of terms."

Arvael shook his head and deflected, "It is nothing, I've heard far worse since then."

"So I see," Fiett remarked, "A fully fledged Librarian."

Arvael didn't want to be reminded of all he had endured during his training and pressed, "I never got to ask about Therro and Varma…"

Fiett's face fell and he said, "Our scout-brothers fell in battle, ask not the details."

Arvael saw the pain in his eyes and said, "I understand, but I am glad you still draw breath."

Fiett looked down and whispered, "You're probably the only one, I assume everybody else wants me dead, after I ran away."

Arvael sighed, "I knew you were inducted into Ninth Company and for the longest time I didn't enquire after your fate, but eventually I had to know. I was saddened when I saw your name listed alongside those who fled with Megaro."

"Worst decision I ever made," Fiett spat angrily, "I should never have listened to Megaro but I was young and naive. The great Chaplain Megaro called upon us to fight for the Divine Emperor, while all around infidels turned against Him on Terra, and I was dumb enough to fall for it. What did I get for my faith; lost in the warp, dumped into obscurity and then years wasted imprisoned."

Arvael's interest was peaked and he inquired, "You didn't follow Megaro willingly?"

Fiett shook his head and said, "I was a rookie and he a Chaplain, I obeyed without question. So here I am, stuck with him and with no other option than to follow his lead."

Arvael stepped in closer and ventured, "Maybe it's not too late, the Chapter still stands. You have committed no crimes, you could return to the fold; you could come home and be welcomed."

Fiett's face sank into a forlorn expression and he said, "No, I've come too far and seen too much for that. There's no going back to how things were for me."

Arvael found it hard to square this morose person with the fierce and driven youth he had known, so handy with a blade and ready to fight anyone. Imploringly Arvael pressed, "But…"

Tersely Fiett spat, "Don't ask me again, it is impossible."

Arvael acquiesced but said, "I have missed you, you were always so eager to knock Therro on his rear."

Fiett smiled sadly as he replied, "And I you, I almost wish I had been a Psyker too, so we could have at least stayed together."

Arvael's face fell and he said, "No, you really don't. To be a Librarian is a burden nobody should covet."

Imix interrupted to say, "Time moves on, you should return to your cell."

The Custodian gestured Fiett to move off, but before he was escorted away he said, "Arvael, I am sorry for abandoning you. I need you to know that."

Arvael watched him depart with sadness in his hearts. He waited until Fiett disappeared into the distance but then he said to his own escort, "You set that up to gauge my reaction, are you satisfied?"

Imix cocked his head and said, "Yes, most informative it was."

Arvael glared at him resentfully and spat, "Anything else you'd like to test?"

Imix pursed his lips and declared, "Next I wish to test your skills in combat, I have secured us a duelling ring; let us discover what you can truly do."


	24. Chapter 24

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 24**

His boots hit the ground with a shot thud, throwing up a cloud of dust as he set foot upon the planet. It was a drab and dark environment, the thick cloud cover resulting from the orbital bombardment blocking out almost all sunlight. Inerus was already experiencing the first onset of a nuclear winter, dooming whatever meagre life this world boasted, assuming the Exterminatus was not enacted first.

Primaris Lieutenant Smyth looked about as his compatriots disembarked from the Overlord gunship. The engines powered down with a throaty cough and Smyth tried not to think about how much dust the intakes had inhaled on their flight here. Instead he focussed upon their destination, a three-story promethium drilling platform on the edge of a salty lake. This had been deemed their best chance at success, a small facility in the middle of nowhere. Too small to merit orbital bombardment but big enough to boast a few hundred workers.

Smyth hefted his bolt rifle as he waved the squads on, Sergeant Ingvis and his Reivers taking point with the Intercessors of Sergeant Yones following behind. Smyth began walking towards the drilling platform and as he did so he declared, "Move quickly, the Crusade screen was fooled by our falsified authorisation but it won't last. We have a two-hour window to capture one of the undead and get back before the logs get updated and they figure out we're not supposed to be here."

Sergeant Ingvis was already pulling ahead and called back, "We'll scout ahead."

Smyth frowned as he reminded the Sergeant, "Remember we need one intact."

"You worry about your part of the mission, I'll worry about mine." Ingvis retorted as his squad disappeared over a hillock. Smyth was only a few seconds behind but when he reached the rise the Reivers had completely vanished from sight, the Lieutenant sighed, "I hate it when they do that."

Yones followed him to the top and looked at the drilling platform then asked, "Do you actually think we can catch one of those nightmares?"

Smyth glanced at Brother Arkias who bore a tangle of plasteel chains and a muzzle and he said, "We have to try, we have to find something to convince Captain Kieva."

Brother Sonatas confirmed, "We're with you Lieutenant."

Smyth ordered confidently, "Move out and keep alert, they could be anywhere."

Swiftly the six Primaris moved out, closing on the drilling platform. It was a mad tangle of pipes and gantries, surrounded by promethium bowsers awaiting filling. The salt wind was blowing off the lake, keening around the metalwork like a wind chime to create discordant notes but Smyth tuned out the background noise. Concentrating on what was before him and searching constantly for enemies. At the back of his mind a nagging voice reminded he was violating standing orders by being here but he drowned it out by thinking the mission was too important to abandon.

Suddenly Brother Nabalai hissed, "Contact ahead."

Smyth pulled up short and swept the area looking for motion but then he spied a revenant laying flat between the bowsers. He waved the squad closer but the fiend did not react to their presence. Smyth was confused by the lack of reaction but closed in anyway, covering it all the while. They soon reached the revenant and Brother Maral stepped in to examine it saying, "No sign of life… that is unlife."

Brother Arkais hefted his chains and queried, "Could it be dormant?"

"I don't think so," Yones responded, "It looks properly dead."

"Leave it," Smyth growled, "We press on and find a live one."

Hastily the squad moved on, entering the unpowered platform yet Smyth's autosenses picked up a faint hissing noise from dead ahead. He spent a millisecond reviewing the schematics of such buildings; built according to STC patterns they were conveniently uniform across the galaxy. Smyth swiftly determined the source and said, "The main drill room, it's where the noise is coming from. We need one intact so no shooting, blades only."

He matched deeds to words, stowing his bolt rifle and drawing his new relic blade. The hilt was sure in his grip and the long blade shimmered as energies played over it, a lethal disintegration field that would tear matter apart at the molecular level. Smyth held the blade in both hands as he stepped up to a metal hatch, then firmly kicked with his boot, sending it flying open as he cried, "Charge!"

Beyond the hatch was a large multi-levelled room, circular in design and ringed with metal catwalks. The centre of the room was taken up with a huge drill shaft, surrounded by consoles and arcane machinery. Yet what drew his eye was the scores of undead standing slackly around the space, their overalls hanging loosely off desiccated flesh. The Primaris piled in and were already three paces into their charge before the fiend reacted.

The undead turned to meet them, hissing wickedly as they lifted their claw-like hands in greeting. One of them, an old man in life staggered at Smyth, warp-fires burning in its eyes as it reached for him. Smyth swung his blade at the fiend, trying to disable it, but he was surprised at how slowly it moved, being far more sluggish than he remembered. The unexpected difference meant the relic blade hit the revenant squarely and sliced deep within, carving through muscles and bone effortlessly. Smyth was stunned by how potent the weapon was and before he knew it he had bisected the revenant, feeling almost no resistance as he did so.

The fiend fell at his feet in two halves and the lights went out in its eyes. Two more came at him with clumsy swipes but a hasty counter sliced them to shreds. Smyth was stunned at how much more deadly he was with this sword, he had never been a notable duellist but with this remarkable blade in hand he reckoned he could take on any challenger.

The din of impacts and the screeching of the undead dragged him back to the fight and he saw the Intercessors tearing the fiends apart, every blow felling one. He hastily yelled, "We need one intact!"

But Yones shouted back, "We're barely touching them!"

It was true; the Intercessors were barely even trying, their lightest strikes destroying the fiends easily. The revenants for their part looked drunk, their motions slow and clumsy as they staggered into the fray with pathetic hisses. The slightest blow was enough to fell them, leaving them broken and inert upon the ground. None of them were even spitting acid and the lights in their eyes were flickering in and out, as if whatever motive force drove them was exhausted.

Suddenly another fiend came at Smyth, formerly a young woman in the flower of youth, and he tried to club it with the hilt of his sword. Yet before he could even touch it the revenant stumbled and fell, like a puppet with its strings cut. Smyth was shocked to see the ethereal fires in its eyes flicker as it lost control of its limbs and collapsed at his feet. The undead sprawled pathetically, its withered arms trying to push it back upright but it lacked the strength to regain its feet and merely flopped down onto its back. The revenant opened its mouth and tried to spit acid but all that came out was a dry wheeze, harmless and ineffective.

Smyth warily circled the revenant, not understanding its sudden distress. He was unsure if it was wise to get so close but cautiously tapped it with the point of his sword, trying to understand what had happened. The revenant feebly swatted at the shining blade but then it fell limp, unable to move at all. It lay upon the ground staring into infinity, then the light disappeared from its eyes, leaving no trace that it was ever there.

Smyth prodded the revenant with his boot, holding his relic sword in both hands lest it suddenly spring back to unlife. Yet the corpse lay there inertly, not moving in the slightest. Befuddled Smyth inspected it closely but he could see no signs of debilitating damage, no indication as to why it had abruptly stopped moving. To all intents and purposes it was nothing but a dried up corpse, betraying no hint that mere moments before it had been trying to kill him.

Utterly confused Smyth looked about the drill room but saw the rest of the squad similarly stumped, surrounded by fallen revenants. Only a few of the foes yet twitched but their moments were lethargic and swiftly petered out into nothing. Where before the room had been crammed with hissing horrors, now it was nothing but a quiet graveyard and it was hard to believe that these fiends had ever been capable of movement, let alone deadly fury.

Yones was prodding a corpse as he muttered, "What's happening to them?"

Smyth lowered his sword but kept it in his hands as he replied, "I don't know, they seem to have lost any capacity to act."

Yones looked around and commented, "It's like they are like a ground-cab that's run out of promethium. Whatever force was animating them seems to have been exhausted."

Smyth couldn't argue with that and said, "Perhaps whatever empowered them has faded, maybe it was only temporary."

Yones straightened up and said, "Shall we take a few back into orbit anyway?"

Smyth sighed, "No, these will tell us nothing. Maybe Captain Kieva was right, these fiends may have been nothing but manifestations of random warp surges and they lost power when it subsided."

But suddenly a new voice cried out, "Or maybe they were switched off!"

Smyth looked up in surprise and saw Sergeant Ingvis standing on a gantry, looking over the metal rail at the scene of battle. His armour was chipped and scored but otherwise intact and he seemed hale in all regards. Yones looked up and called, "By the Red Sands, where have you lot been?!"

Ingvis swung out onto a metal ladder and slid down to land on the floor with a soft thump. He dusted off his hands then looked at the other Sergeant and said, "We've been busy."

Smyth rolled his eyes and said, "What did you find?"

Ingvis nodded at the corpses and informed him, "The rest of the facility is like this, the undead are spent, they have been deactivated."

"What makes you say that?" Yones inquired.

Ingvis replied, "They're like used bolt-shell casings."

Smyth didn't follow that and barked, "Stop being so cryptic and explain your reasoning."

Ingvis prodded a corpse with his boot and said, "Consider that these horrors are nothing but weapons to their master or ammunition if you prefer. It takes time and resources to forge a bolt round, but once you've fired your rifle you don't waste time caring about the used casings, you dump them and move on. These things must have required immense energy to sustain but it was worth it while they served a purpose. Now their task has been fulfilled, so why would their master waste more energy motivating them when they are no longer needed?"

Yones sounded thoughtful as he asked, "Do you think the whole planet is like this?"

But Smyth wasn't listening, instead looking up at the roof as he whispered, "Oh no. No, no, no."

Yones glanced over in surprise and asked, "What is it?"

Smyth felt a horrified realisation creeping over him and he said, "I've just realised that all this death and destruction has served a purpose. Think about it, what has this curse achieved? What changes has it wrought?"

Yones sounded confused as he said, "It cost us good lives and a whole Imperial world."

"No, that was incidental damage," Smyth countered, "Think bigger, what did it do among the stars? What effect did it have on a galactic scale?"

"It forced the Crusade fleet to change course," Ingvis suddenly spat, "The warp squall didn't produce these deaths, it was the other way around. Millions of people died overnight and their death cries stirred up the warp, forcing the Indomitus Crusade to pause in this stellar system."

Yones spluttered in horrified realisation, "By the Omnissiah!"

Smyth swallowed and said, "We have seriously underestimated the threat, destroying Inerus was nothing but a means to an end. Somebody wanted the Crusade to divert course; somebody deliberately drew it here."

Yones sounded uncertain as he said, "What do we do?"

Smyth made a snap decision and said, "We get back to the Overlord and return to orbit. Captain Kieva has to believe us now, he can't ignore this. Whatever foul scheme is in motion we have to find out what it is and put a stop to it."


	25. Chapter 25

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 25**

The arena rang with the clash of wood on wood as two Transhumans duelled. Each one of them was a genhanced warrior, forged by arcane sciences then beaten upon the anvil of war and tempered by strife. Back and forth they danced, spinning and battering with their wooden staffs, testing each other's capabilities in a dazzling display of skill that would have left mortal observers dazed.

Arvael was dancing down the empty hall while on around him ranks of tiered seat arose. Normally duels aboard the Macragge's Honour drew much notice but none wished to be present when two Psykers fought. Far above a mural displayed the Emperor sitting in judgement, a stern visage that demanded fealty and respect but Arvael had no time to look up. His full attention was on the spinning staves, on the thrust and parry of the duel. Opposing him Shade-Seer Imix was a picture of serene calm, his expression focussed but not strained as he fought with precise skill. Technically Imix had an advantage, he was armoured and Arvael was not, but in this duel that hardly mattered. Their physical contest was but a mundane rote action, the true duel lay in the demesne of the Psyker.

Arvael had conjured a kine shield to protect himself, a circular barrier that protected his centre mass. Meanwhile he was channelling telekinetic force into his stave, lending it power and weight beyond that which the flimsy wood's density should allow. His blows were empowered by his mind's strength, turning his meagre armament into a mighty weapon. Imix for his part was shrouding his intentions with a miasma of confusion and misdirection. His form seemed to blur and shimmer as his telepathic haze created erroneous suggestions of his next actions. Simultaneously he was skimming the future for signs of the next attack, reacting to strikes before they had even been initiated. Arvael was finding it hard to keep up with the Shade-Seer's assault, his own instincts trying to cheat him as Imix wove illusion after illusion. Arvael was forced to erect mental walls around his mind to keep the phantoms out, yet every second that passed saw Imix finding a new gap in his defences, another vulnerability in his psyche to exploit.

Sweat poured down Arvael as he tried to fight physically and mentally at the same time, drawing upon two disciplines at once. He had trained in both aspects of his power but rarely had he been forced to employ both at once, it was like spinning plates on sticks, every moment seeing a new imperfection emerging. Imix however seemed untroubled, coolly advancing with a flurry of blows while his mind sang a chorus of confusion. Arvael's mind was aching from the exertion but he was starting to gain an understanding of the Shade-Seer's power. Imix's psychic connection was a depthless well of raw potency but that power was entirely ethereal in nature. In matters of thought and fate he was mighty, but in the physical realm he was limited. Arvael was aware that Imix could simply obliterate his mind but the Smoke Jaguar eschewed such blatant displays of might, preferring insidious feints and sly illusions.

Suddenly Arvael perceived Imix tensing to swing wide and his instincts told him to block but he overrode it. He had learned that Imix's tactics were cunning and sly so instead of moving to parry he struck out, extending his staff in a short jab. The illusion of Imix dissolved as Arvael made contact and he discharged a blast of telekinetic power to send the Shade-Seer skidding backwards, boots sparking off the bare metal deck.

Arvael tried to follow that up with a wild slash but Imix was already dodging, letting the blow pass by harmlessly. The Shade-Seer stepped back, rotating his staff before him and remarked, "You have potential."

Arvael circled right, keeping his guard up as he said, "I am no callow youth, I have fought and killed many."

"You say that like it is a prideful thing," Imix retorted as he adjusted his grip.

Arvael leapt a wary distance as he replied, "Is not the purpose of the Astartes to fight and kill for the Emperor?"

Imix took a step forward and probed with his staff as he said, "Such blunt thinking, your mind is made of nothing but harsh angles. Where is your subtly, where is your artistry? To slay millions is needless when the death of one can achieve victory."

Arvael fell back, keeping his intentions concealed as he asked, "Is that the way of the Smoke Jaguars?"

"Truth," Imix retorted, "We hold that the art of war is winning with but a single shot."

Warily Arvael asked, "Is that why you limit yourself instead of using your full strength or is it that you can't? Your power is entirely in the realm of the mind, you cannot affect the physical world."

Imix's eyes narrowed and his guard lowered a hairsbreadth as he spat angrily, "Your words are as the jade python, it shakes its tail to scare off predators, hiding the fact that it has no fangs."

Arvael spied the momentary gap in Imix's defence and flung himself forward, thrusting out with his staff. The Shade-Seer did not respond, standing stock still as the Storm Herald closed but then his lips moved and he spat a strange word that echoed in the realms beyond reality. Arvael felt a shimmering wave of power rising around him and then a column of sparkling light engulfed him.

Arvael suddenly lost all ability to move as a circle of light erupted from the deck. It was a symbol made of curving lines and complicated swirls with eldritch runes laid out at the cardinal points. Light arose from the glowing marks, encasing Arvael in a cocoon of light that held him motionless. He tried to move but was incapable of acting, locked into his position like a statue, even his powers could not break his bondage for there was no physical matter to flail against.

Arvael's jaw was sealed shut but through gritted teeth he growled, "What. Is. This."

Imix relaxed his stance and closed to the edge of the circle; he rested his staff upon the ground and declared, "A skill born of Copan XII, a Glyph of Paralysis."

"How. Does. It. Work." Arvael growled from his imprisonment.

"Artfully," Imix replied.

"Do. You. Mind. Freeing. Me." Arvael uttered.

"Very well," Imix said and with that he placed the tip of his staff inside the glowing lines and pulled it backwards, marring the symbol. Arvael gasped as the light dissolved, freeing him from his imprisonment and letting him move once more. He sucked in a greedy breath and rubbed his throat then examined the ground, seeing the swirling lines dissolving into nothingness.

Arvael frowned as he asked, "How did you do that?"

"You spoke truth when you said my gift lies in the realm of spirit," Imix stated, "Yet I have learned more subtle means to touch the world."

"Sorcery?" Arvael hissed warily.

"Skill," Imix replied snappishly.

Arvael shook his head and said, "I don't understand, your power is immense. You could lay waste to armies and defeat any Champion of Chaos."

Imix sighed, "And in doing so I become a Dark Lord, greater and more terrible than they ever could be. A moment of incaution and I would open myself to a Daemon. I would become a destroyer of worlds, a blight upon the stars. Better to be modest, better to die than become like that."

Arvael gulped as he grasped the peril, if a Psyker of Imix's potency were to be possessed the resulting carnage would be staggering to behold. He asked in awe, "How did you become so mighty?"

Imix took on a distant look and said, "I was conceived psychically active, I heard my mother's thoughts singing to me in the womb and my birth cry echoed in the Warp. I thank the Sun-Emperor that the Shade-Seer of the season, the great Ah Puch who walked with one foot in the underverse, heard the stars whispering and foresaw my birth. He stole me from my crib before the Daemons of Chaos could claim me."

"And how did he train you to be so powerful?" Arvael asked.

"My training was more about limiting my power," Imix answered, "I saw what happens when one of our kind fails, for another learner was claimed by a Daemon. I had to kill him before he unleashed the horror."

Arvael understood that and sadly concurred, "I too have had to execute heretics within our own ranks."

Imix's telepathic power flickered, effortlessly bypassing Arvael's defences, then the Shade-Seer remarked, "Such sadness in your soul, do you mourn for heretics?"

Arvael looked away and confessed, "I have done worse than that, for not only heretic blood stains my hands. My friend Quomas, he was training to be a Librarian like me, but his will was weak. I judged him untrustworthy and I killed him before he could fall."

Imix whispered, "I share this pain, all Librarians do."

Arvael sighed wretchedly, "I will never forget the look on his face as he died."

But Imix grew stern as he declared, "Weakness cannot be tolerated; no risks can be taken with the Warp, better these souls die pure than chance poison spreading. Trust must be alien to our nature, but still we remember. Their spirits haunt us and in the twilight hours they lament in our ears."

Arvael frowned, Imix had an odd cadence but that sounded literal and he probed, "You don't speak poetically do you?"

Imix stroked one of the skulls hanging from his belt as he abstractly stated, "The Smoke Jaguars hold no one is truly dead so long as their name is yet spoken. If you can remember them then they yet linger and can even aid you, if you can draw them forth."

"Summon the dead?" Arvael said with a scowl, "That sounds like the curse on Inerus."

Imix's eyes narrowed and he hissed, "Do not speak of such filth, the taint of Chaos perverts the natural order. The cycles of life and death are to be respected, not defiled."

Arvael hastily backed down before Imix's anger and hastily changed the subject, "So how did you make that glyph?"

Imix's anger faded and he drew his staff over the deck, leaving a glowing trail as he explained, "By imprinting my power onto a vessel, it takes time and effort but once completed can lie dormant. I made that glyph before we even met."

"How long can the Glyph remain dormant?" Arvael asked in genuine interest.

"As long as the physical vessel remains undisturbed," Imix replied touching a scroll at his belt.

"And what kind of glyphs can you make?" Arvael inquired.

Imix answered, "Many kinds, glyphs of aversion, revelation, banishment and warding. For me it is slow and tedious work yet for you it may be far easier, you have potential I do not."

Arvael frowned as he demurred, "I find that hard to believe."

Imix stated, "I require a conduit but you may be able to imprint your power directly into the surface of reality."

"I don't know how," Arvael confessed.

"Make a shield," Imix ordered.

Arvael complied, forming a kine shield, to the physically gifted it was a broad circle, sitting over his arm like a buckler. Imix sniffed dismissively, "I scent the teachings of Echeb: strength and rigidity, knowledge and power but no subtly or art."

Arvael scowled at the criticism and muttered, "What would you suggest?"

Imix moved his finger to describe a circle in the air and said, "Make a ring, yes, that is good. Draw a cross through it… good, very good. Now use it as your palate and draw your glyph upon it."

Arvael mind strained as he followed the instructions. Holding kine lines in mid-air was delicate work, akin to balancing a soap bubble on his finger but he persisted.

"Slower, be more delicate," Imix instructed, "Make the glyph in your imagination then draw it into being."

Arvael's mind was creaking under the strain, the minute adjustments testing his fine control. He tried to make the glyph stronger but in doing so pushed too hard and it popped, dissolving into nothing as his mastery crumbled.

Arvael let go his power and exhaled wearily, "I lost it."

"You did better than I, on my first attempt," Imix commented, "You need to practice. Here this tome will guide you."

The Shade-Seer took a small book wrapped in snake-skin from his belt and handed it over. Arvael took the tome and flipped through it, seeing densely packed text on every page. He bowed and said, "My thanks; I will study this in my cell."

Imix however demurred, "I think we can dispense with the cell, I judge you true to your word. You may return to your blood-kin and wait with them."

"Thank you," Arvael exclaimed in genuine gratitude.

"Do not thank me yet," Imix replied, "We have yet to determine your Chapter's future, it may yet be that you shall share your comrade's fate."


	26. Chapter 26

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 26**

Toran missed his sword, the thought kept nagging at him, a notion he could not shake off. It was odd because he had never truly believed in the superstitious reverence his kin invested into the Sword of Thiel, to him it had simply been a potent weapon, yet now he was without it his hand felt unbalanced and clumsy. Of course it might also have something to do with the fact that he was currently wielding a piece of wood, a table leg torn free from the furniture.

Toran's moment of introspection cost him a bruise as Novak's own table leg sailed past his defence and whacked him on the knuckles. The Champion scowled as he barked, "Concentrate!" Toran shook off his naval-gazing and redoubled his efforts, thrusting and parrying with the long piece of wood. Novak was currently fighting left-handed, his sword hand still encased in bandages. Normally such a wound have healed by now but without access to an Apothecarion the injury could only be restored by Novak's implants and it was tediously slow. The last two days had been even more tedious than that; the Storm Heralds had been trapped in their opulent gaol with nothing to do and no word as to the progress of their doom. Astartes did not cope well with nothing to do and so they had found ways to pass the time. Novak had improvised a duelling ring in one bedroom and was practising swordplay, given the flimsy materials they could only practice basic drills but it was better than nothing.

Another blow got past Toran's guard and whacked him in the shoulder and he grimaced as his counter was brushed off. The Captain was unaccustomed to such a crude weapon, his hand had been trained to wield a precious relic blade and he was realising that his other combat forms were rusty. Then he snarled to himself, his old training instructors would have branded talk like that an excuse for failure and for Astartes giving anything less than their absolute best was unacceptable. Toran sprang forward and launched a vicious flurry of blows that drove Novak backwards. That was a victory in itself, Novak was a far superior swordsman but he was fighting with his off hand and so was handicapped. Yet Toran's moment of triumph was cut short as Novak jabbed low and scored a bruising hit to the groin, had that been a real fight he would have severed the Captain's femoral artery.

Toran sighed as he lowered his weapon and said, "Another victory, my congratulations."

Novak lowered his own haft and remarked, "Don't be disheartened, you are getting better."

Toran grimaced as he said, "Even left handed your swordwork is exemplary."

Novak shrugged, "It's what I do."

From the sideline Persion's voice arose saying, "Is it my turn yet?"

Toran sighed and handed over the wooden shaft declaring, "Try not to embarrass him too much."

Persion grinned as he flourished the implement said, "I can't make any promises."

"I was talking to Novak," Toran retorted as he strode off.

Toran left the bedroom and rejoined the main chamber. As he did so he spied Memnos sitting in a corner, the Apothecary had taken up a jagged piece of glass and was drawing it across his bare arms over and over, reopening bloody scars in his flesh. Toran had been concerned at first but when questioned Memnos had growled that he needed to wear his disgrace, that he could not bear to be without his Chains of Shame. Toran had quickly decided to leave Memnos be; knowing nothing he could say would stop the Apothecary.

Toran moved on and found Jediah, still swaddled in bandages, he was sitting facing the door and watching their guards. The Custodians had not moved in two days, remaining utterly still yet eternally watchful. Toran did not doubt that they were keenly aware of everything that passed in the gaol and even he was amazed by their stoicism. He leaned closer to Jediah and asked, "Have they given you anything?"

"Nothing," Jediah snarled, "They don't even respond to insults, it's like they have no pride."

"Keep a watchful eye," Toran ordered, "Anything could happen."

He left Jediah to his vigil and moved at last to a small table where Furion and Orath were sitting to play a game of Regicide. Orath looked sullen but he moved his pieces with a firm hand, keeping his strategy aggressive and relentless. Toran looked over Orath's shoulder and said, "Who is winning?"

Orath muttered, "He's bested me in four games so far but I've finally got him right where I want him."

In response Furion moved a single piece right across the length of the board and declared, "Checkmate."

"For Frak's sake!" Orath snarled as he stood up and stalked away to sulk.

Toran sat down and reset the board but as he did so he said, "Memnos concerns me."

Furion replaced his own pieces and commented, "He needs to wear his shame."

Toran shook his head and muttered, "He accepts his disgrace but carving into his own flesh? This is going too far."

Furion's eyes narrowed and he declared, "He deserves far worse and he knows it. Without the Chains of Shame some may think him forgiven and he cannot bear that. Memnos needs to visibly atone, it is the only way he can live with his guilt."

Toran blinked at that, Furion tone was harsh but not scornful and echoed truly. Memnos' guilt was eternal; he would never forgive himself. Unsettled by the thought Toran changed the subject remarking, "Two days and no word."

"Trust in Imix," Furion replied, "He won't let us down."

Toran lowered his eyes to the board and said, "I wonder what is happening out there, has Guilliman passed judgement on us yet?"

"We can but wait and see," Furion stated frankly.

Toran sighed deeply, "All my life I venerated our gene-father. I held to his ideals and his teachings, in spirit if not in letter. I strove every day to be a warrior he would be proud of and now he returns only to declare that he detests us. We are condemned by our own Primarch, it is harrowing."

Furion sighed, "In a strange way I am glad Bylan did not live to see this day, it would have broken his hearts."

Toran nodded saying, "I thought it a tragedy he did not live to hear the news of Guilliman's return, now I envy his glorious death."

Furion glared at him and said, "Do not wish for death, we need you ready to fight this doom. You have always found a novel way out of peril before."

"No Sword of Thiel, no armour, no Company," Toran lamented, "How am I supposed to fight whilst being almost naked and totally unarmed?"

Yet Furion retorted, "Don't get depressed, get angry."

Toran picked up a regicide piece, about to make his first move but right then the Custodian at the door stiffened and declared, "You have visitors."

"Imix?" Toran cried as he leapt to his feet but when the door slid back it was not the Shade-Seer but another Marine. He was a Primaris Marine, in heavy Gravis armour and with a scornful expression on his face. He stepped within the room and looked about, glaring down his nose at them all.

"Kieva," Toran spat in loathing, "How dare you show your face to us."

Captain Kieva fixed Toran with a glare and replied, "You speak to me thus?"

Toran heard the others gathering behind him but he stared at Kieva and felt his anger building. He drew in a breath and growled, "Are you here to explain your betrayal?"

"I don't have to justify myself to you," Kieva snapped.

"It was wise to wear armour to this meeting," Jediah hissed, "I'd gut you where you stand."

"You are welcome to try," Kieva uttered confidently as the Custodians inclined their spears to indicate their willingness to use them should violence erupt.

Furion cut in to say, "Are you here merely to gloat or is there a purpose to this?"

Kieva glared at them for a moment longer then declared, "As a matter of fact, I am acting as an escort."

From the open door stepped another Marine, shorter and in black armour. His plate was adorned with Chaplaincy markings and grinning skulls but his shoulders were storm grey and bore the spiral in a starburst icon of the Storm Heralds. His face was unfamiliar but filled with resentment from his sharp jawline to his shaved scalp. There was only one soul this could be and Toran hissed, "Megaro."

Chaplain Megaro glared at the lot of them and uttered, "So the criminals are unrepentant, I was a fool to think otherwise."

Toran sensed his companions bristling but he quickly said, "The only criminal I see here is you."

Megaro snorted, "Pathetic, your words are hollow and insipid. The Chapter has sunk low indeed since you seized power."

Orath stepped in to say, "Still strong enough to beat your True Believers."

Megaro glared at him and said, "A shame Lessall and Samect did not act earlier. Had they struck sooner then you would have been crushed."

Orath sneered as he retorted, "Do not be so proud of those two. Samect died screaming as Ajax ripped him in two and Lessall took the coward's way out, he drank poison rather than face justice."

Megaro sneered, "Trying to smear their memory changes nothing, you killed our dream and seized power."

Yet Furion corrected him, "We did not do so, for no kin-slayer could be allowed to lead us. Phalros is Chapter Master now, he was the only Captain without blood on his hands."

Megaro blinked at that and said in shocked, "Phalros is the Chapter Master?"

Toran suddenly remembered that Megaro had been Chaplain of Ninth Company, Phalros' own Company. Toran suddenly spied an opening, thinking that perhaps there was a way out of this predicament. He looked at Megaro and stated, "Yes and he is most fair and noble. He permitted the True Believers to live, subject to a penitent crusade, he spared the Apothecaries too. He would hear your plea were you to return to the homeworld and repent your deeds."

Megaro looked lost for an instant saying, "Phalros rules… I can't believe."

Toran pressed, "He would listen to you, despite everything you have never killed another Storm Herald. Give up your campaign against us and come home, to be welcomed as a lost Brother."

Megaro gaze was far away but then his face hardened as his wrath returned and he spat, "No, you have taken everything from me and I will never forgive you."

Toran saw the moment slipping and he implored, "It's not too late to reconsider, there is no need for the Storm Heralds to be at war with ourselves anymore."

Megaro's expression darkened and he growled, "Never, I would die first."

"Why?" Toran probed, "Why do you seek to destroy the Chapter you once swore to defend?"

"Because I hate you!" Megaro roared, "I wanted you to know that, I wanted to look you in the eye and tell you that I have forgotten nothing and forgiven less. When I and my band fled our ship was lost in the warp, beset by despair, death and Daemons. Yet my hatred and my faith sustained me and kept me strong, as the crew withered and rotted before our eyes I clung to the thought of revenge and prayed for your deaths. And lo, the Divine Emperor heard my pleas and delivered me unto the very people who could ensure your righteous extermination. It is His will that you shall die and I will not rest until justice is done."

Toran saw his zealous fury and knew there was no arguing with such raw hate. He sighed deeply and said, "I thought the Storm Herald's civil war was ancient history, but I see now it never actually ended. This is how it will be, blood against blood, Brother against Brother until the very end."

"Thus shall it be," Megaro proclaimed, "We shall be enemies for all time, I shall never relent and never stop seeking your destruction."

Toran drew in a breath and said, "So be it, but know we are not dead yet. You shall find us harder to break than you think."

Megaro sneered, "No matter what it takes I will see the Storm Herald's ground into the dust. No matter the cost I will not relent until all your heads end up on pikes and your last thoughts shall be that at the end the True Believers won!" With that he stalked out the door, followed by Kieva. Then the door slid closed, leaving Toran with his words ringing in his ears.


	27. Chapter 27

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 27**

"You did what?!" Kieva shouted at the top of his voice. The Primaris Captain sounded outraged, absolutely livid at the news he had just been told and his swarthy features darkened as his face flushed. His quarters barely seemed large enough to contain his ire, the walls ringing with echoes of his indignation. Lieutenant Smyth could tell Kieva was upset, hardly surprising but he knew they had to weather the storm of his anger. Kieva was sitting in a thick robe behind a wide desk and his hands gripped the edge with fury. Before him stood Smyth, Yones and Ingvis, all in their full plate. They were standing rigidly as they reported to the Captain, each one of them facing the consequences of their deeds. There had been suggestions of bypassing Kieva but Smyth had overridden that talk, they would not conceal what they had done.

Kieva glared at the trio and hissed, "Do you have any idea how many regulations you broke?"

Ingvis replied candidly, "Forty-seven."

Kieva eyes narrowed and he hissed, "You're not even sorry are you?"

Smyth took the opportunity to say, "We accepted we would be punished, but the intelligence we gathered on Inerus was worth it."

Kieva spat, "Don't speak to me about intelligence, I should have the lot of you sent for servitor processing."

Ingvis sounded cool as he said, "But you won't, not once you've heard what we found."

Kieva's lip curled and he growled, "Out with it then."

Smyth kept his chin up and reported, "We discovered that the undead are failing, all of them. They have lost their virility, falling inert as soon as we approached. Whatever was empowering them has been switched off."

Kieva snorted, "That's it? That's all you found."

"No Captain," Yones replied, "We uncovered their purpose, the death toll they created stirred up the Warp and caused the Indomitus Crusade to divert course. When it arrived they were abandoned for being no longer necessary."

Kieva shook his head and said, "The Warp surge could have done all that, it caused everything. Even now the fleet sits at anchor waiting for the turbulence to die down. The Navigators bleat it is too dangerous to risk Warp Translation but the Senior commanders grow impatient, we should have been at Tectum by now."

Smyth heard the denial but asserted, "We can prove it wasn't random, the warp surge was created deliberately. Someone killed a whole world just to delay us."

Yones added, "The undead were created for a function, they served it and then were deactivated. That is undeniable evidence of intention, of a mind at work."

Then Ingvis interjected, "Someone went to immense trouble to draw the Crusade here, someone who knew where we were going when we departed on the Omnissiah's Bounty."

Kieva shook his head and said, "You're scrambling for ingots amongst swarf."

Ingvis disagreed, "We can't ignore this, if you won't listen then we'll take it straight to the Custodian Guard."

"Stop," Kieva sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose then said resignedly, "Error-shunt-abort, I didn't need this problem but here it is anyway. Cogs are cogs and facts are facts, we can't ignore this, it's too big to turn our backs on anymore."

Smyth blinked in surprise and said, "Captain? You… you believe us?"

Kieva looked up and snapped, "I'm not a glitching idiot. After our last conversation the inconsistencies kept nagging at me. I tried to brush them off but no matter what I couldn't bury the notion that something was wrong. The very idea that someone could orchestrate the curse from light years away sounded farcical, I didn't want it to be true, but I kept coming back to it over and over. So I tested Megaro, by taking him to see his former comrades."

Smyth was still struggling to understand Kieva's change of heart and asked, "What did he say?"

"Everything I needed to hear," Kieva sighed resignedly, "There was such epic hatred in his hearts, such rabid zealotry. His words shocked me; a Marine who hates like that could do anything. That's what finally convinced me he is up to something. Now this, along with the loss of our ship, the orbital dock and the curse: there's a pattern emerging, one I can no longer deny."

Yones sounded incredulous as he asked, "So you're admitting we were right all along?"

Kieva glared at him and spat, "You have made your case. Do you want to act smug about it or figure out what we are to do?"

Hastily Smyth suggested, "We don't know how, but we do know who."

Kieva rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then confessed, "While you were gone I did some digging of my own and found something damning."

"Sir?" Smyth asked in confusion.

"You can come in now," Kieva called loudly.

At the side of the main chamber an ancillary door slid open, revealing an Astartes warrior. He was shorter than the Primaris and clad in a blue quite unlike their own. His armour was the obsolete Mark VII variant and upon his shoulder was the spiral in a starburst of the Storm Heralds. Smyth recognised this face, he was one of the half-dozen prisoners they had captured alongside Megaro and the Lieutenant breathed, "You are the one called Fiett."

Fiett stepped into the room and said, "You called?"

"Thank you for waiting," Kieva uttered then explained, "Fiett has revealed critical intelligence to me."

Fiett stepped closer but Ingvis muttered, "Were you waiting behind the door solely to make a dramatic entrance?"

Fiett ignored that and said, "I bring information regarding Megaro, I can prove he's up to something."

Smyth was surprised to hear that but asked, "How so?"

Fiett drew in a breath and explained, "Ever since you placed us under house arrest you've tried to keep us off-balance. Changing quarters, random interrogations and interviews with high-ranking personages, not to mention splitting us up and moving us about separately from each other. At first we thought everything was normal but then I and my fellow detainees began to notice gaps."

"Gaps?" Yones inquired warily.

Fiett nodded and said, "We began to compare notes and we realised there are periods when none of us can account for Megaro's whereabouts. Never more than two or three hours at a time but growing more frequent in the last few months. Yet he always turns up before any guards notice his absence."

Smyth was shocked to hear that but he instantly spotted the flaw in the argument and said, "He will probably claim he was being interviewed separately, he has been speaking to as many high-ranking persons as he can, Jaric Phoros for one."

"He wasn't," Kieva stated, "I cross-checked the logs and found during those missing periods Megaro should have been locked up with at least one of his companions. Every record I can find shows him being under guard, even the pict-logs declare he was in his quarters."

"How is this possible?" Yones asked in bewilderment.

"I don't know," Kieva growled, "That is what concerns me, it can't be psychic in nature, the number of wards around the Macragge's Honour means any warpcraft would have set a thousand alarms screaming. The Machine Spirits show no sign of tampering either and the guards saw nothing suspicious…"

Ingvis was staring at Fiett suspiciously and asked, "Pause function for a moment, why are you telling us this? Why are you suddenly willing to turn on your old master?"

Fiett looked down and said softly, "The Storm Heralds, I ran into one of them. Arvael, he's an old friend, one I haven't seen in years. I had forgotten what it was like to have a friend I could count on. For years all I've known in Megaro and his hate, but seeing a friendly face was a wake-up call. I am helping a mad zealot destroy my own Chapter; I have become the very thing I swore to oppose. Seeing Arvael reminded me of who I used to be, it opened my eyes and I realised I had to speak out. I can't be this wretched turncoat anymore."

Smyth jumped on the opportunity to declare, "This is epic, we have him now. We should take this straight to the Custodian Guard!"

"And tell them what?!" Kieva spat, "That we lost control of our prisoner, that we let him run rings around us. And what if it turns out he was secretly meeting with a senior commander? Accusing a Chapter Master without solid proof, how would that look? We would be disgraced, cast down for our incompetence."

Smyth's hearts sank, despite everything Kieva still had one eye on his promotion, he was still prioritising his career over everything else. Smyth wanted to shout at the Marine and knock some sense into him but he dared not, Kieva had only just come around and needed a subtle approach. He drew in a breath to calm his irritation and carefully said, "Captain, we know Megaro is up to something. We have to report this, our duty demands it."

"Report what?" Kieva snapped, "Mysterious movements, wild conspiracy theories and talk of plots in the dark, this is not enough to start making accusations. Megaro has passed every psychic scan and tripped no alarms; he has done nothing we can officially condemn him for, we can't even be absolutely certain he was involved with Inerus' destruction. We believe he's up to something but what? What is his purpose and how does he mean to achieve it?"

Fiett added, "Then there's the most important question of all: is Megaro the only one involved?"

"Error 404!" Kieva cussed, "He's right, Megaro can't have been acting alone, someone must be helping him bypass security."

Ingvis agreed, "Do you remember the Martian rust-snakes, the way they burrowed under the sands, leaving only a hunting-sensor exposed? Megaro is like that, he may only be the smallest part of this. We need to uncover the scale of the plot before we can act; taking down Megaro is pointless if his co-conspirators get away."

Yones nodded saying, "I hate to admit it but they're right, this is bigger than one Marine. We could be facing a vast conspiracy."

"All the more reason to tell the Custodes," Smyth implored.

"No," Kieva rebuked him, "If we go to the Adeptus Custodes with nothing but wild conspiracy theories they will march Megaro into a torture chamber and rip him apart piece by piece looking for answers. Then they will do the same to us, just in case we know something, rank means nothing to them. We will be dragged down with Megaro while anyone else involved will disappear, slithering under a rock. Whoever he's working with will bide their time until they feel safe enough to start all over again."

Ingvis concurred, "We are shooting blindly in the dark and require more information. Once we know what's going on, then we can take this to the Custodes."

"Exactly," Kieva pronounced, "Who knows, if we expose a genuine threat then we may even come out of this looking like heroes."

Smyth fought the urge to sigh at Kieva's venal remark and said, "So how do we uncover what his plans are?"

Kieva laced his fingers before him and ordered, "Act like you suspect nothing and give Megaro no clue that you are onto him. You three are to watch him like hawks, if you act as his escorts you can track his movements and see who he talks to. I will dedicate myself to unravelling the gaps in our data records, there must be some clue as to where he's been disappearing to. Fiett, I need you to go back to your comrades and be our ear in his camp, tell us everything you learn."

Fiett nodded saying, "I can do that."

Smyth eyed him and queried, "You're sure you can spy on your own master?"

Fiett looked sad as he said, "I wish I had done it years ago, all of us do. Megaro is a poor leader."

Kieva sat back and declared, "This is not an official investigation but we will do it anyway. Devote all your efforts to rooting out this conspiracy and leave no stone unturned. I am counting on you to find something we can act on."

Smyth saluted as he turned to leave, it wasn't everything he had wished for but it was something he could work with. Kieva had at last given him license to investigate properly and he was determined to get to the bottom of this. Smyth swore that no matter what he would avenge the lives already lost to this vile conspiracy and make the culprits pay.


	28. Chapter 28

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 28**

The glyph shone in a way that was invisible to any but the psychically gifted, lines flowing into each other with graceful intent while arcane runes formed at the cardinal points. The glyph flowed from his hand, spilling over the metal floor as it etched itself into reality. Slowly Arvael finessed his design, making minute adjustments with the most gentle of touches. Meticulously he drew his intent into being, working to ancient codas that he had learned from Imix's tome. Arvael had been returned to his comrades the day before, to be greeted with urgent questions as to the state of affairs. Sadly he had nothing to tell them, his knowledge no more complete than theirs. Disappointedly they had retired, leaving Arvael to study his tome. He had been practising diligently but met with no success, a frustrating state of affairs. The art was highly subtle and mastery eluded him, yet at last he was confident he had grasped the fundamentals.

Arvael carefully lifted his hand from the floor and was happily surprised that the glyph did not burst, staying exactly as he had made it. That was a good sign; the glyph was a closed loop, storing his power as a battery would a charge. He stood up and brushed off his hands saying, "It's ready."

Across from him Persion commented, "I can't see anything."

"You're not supposed to," Arvael stated.

Persion shook his head saying, "Glyph magic sounds like sorcery to me."

"It's not," Arvael snapped, "Sorcery draws upon power alien to the caster, but this is all me. There's nothing there but my own power."

"I still don't like it," Persion muttered.

"You did promise to try it for me," Arvael pointed out.

Persion's face fell at that, betraying his abhorrence. It was comical really, Persion was an Astartes, he fought nightmares everyday but psionics made him hesitate. Revulsion of the Warp was a matter of gospel in the Imperium. Yet Persion's doubts were quickly squashed and he stepped forward saying, "This better not turn me inside out."

Arvael rolled his eyes and then spoke the activation word. It could have been anything he willed, a clap, a breeze, the shadow of an intruder but a word seemed more straightforward. The sound of it hung in the air and a second passed, then another and another, then Persion inquired, "Is it working?"

"No," Arvael said with a frown, "It should be, but it's not."

Persion hastily stepped aside and said, "Seems you got sent on a snipe hunt."

Arvael stared at his creation, rubbing at a large scar over his face, and muttered, "Why didn't that work? Maybe I got the runes wrong, one mistake would ruin it."

He picked up his tome and began flicking through it intently looking for his mistake. Persion however exhaled in relief and said, "I think Imix is playing a jape on you."

Arvael continued pouring through his book mumbling, "Where was it?"

"Let us know when you figure it out," Persion cheerily said, "It's Novak's turn next."

Arvael didn't look up as Persion strolled off, joining Toran, Furion and the others in the main chamber. He thumbed through his book until he found the right page then inspected the diagrams within. One look was enough to illuminate that he had put a single rune in upside down, more than enough to ruin it. He sighed deeply and was about to start all over again but suddenly Arvael's psychic senses tingled, detecting a powerful aura approaching.

Arvael instantly recognised that Imix was coming and he wasn't alone, there was a second aura with him, one the Librarian did not know. Arvael almost spoke up to inform everybody but then shut his mouth, all Psykers quickly learned that mundane minds did not like it when given unasked for revelations and this was hardly urgent news. Arvael pulled his foot through the glyph, dissipating it entirely then waited calmly, knowing his kin would learn of the Shade-Seer's approach in good time. Sure enough the door soon slid back as the Custodians announced Imix's arrival. Everybody leapt to their feet in surprise and as Arvael joined them Toran eagerly moved forward calling, "Imix, we are heartily glad to see you!"

"Light of the Dawn be upon you," Imix announced, "I bring news."

Toran said something in return but Arvael was lost in bemusement. Imix's aura was blazing brightly but the Captain seemed blissfully unaware that he was standing before a furnace of might. Everybody closed in around him, showing no more wariness to Imix than they did to Arvael himself. It took a moment for Arvael to realise that to them the Shade-Seer really was not that different, older and more experienced yes, but just another Librarian to them.

Arvael shook off his musings as he heard Toran enquiring, "What do you mean?"

Imix looked about and said, "Perhaps it is best if you sit down."

However Furion crossed his arms and growled, "We have waited for days with no word, the truth holds no fear for us."

Imix breathed in then spoke, "We have done what we can but many grow impatient with our delaying tactics. The voices that speak against you grow more numerous and cries of condemnation arise on all sides."

Toran frowned as he remarked, "I thought you said high Marshall Hellbrecht support us."

"He supports the autonomy of the Astartes," Imix corrected, "For you the heir of Sigismund cares nothing, should the scales tip against you he will not shed his own blood for your cause."

Furion rubbed his chin and said, "Surely there must be more who would speak out for us?"

Imix shook his head and said, "Few, and opposing voices grow more ardent, chief among them Jaric Phoros."

Arvael frowned and asked, "What does the Master of the Fire Lords have against us?"

"Alas it is my fault," Imix sighed, "He opposes you simply to spite me; my enemy has become your enemy by association. The Great One's patience has run its course, this has already gone on far longer than he intended. He wants this resolved, immediately."

Arvael swallowed at the implication but Toran pressed, "He will judge us out of hand?"

"This he cannot do," Imix said, "Too many would see it as endangering their own rights, he would lose many Chapters. Primarch or not, the Astartes will not suffer their pride to be torn from them. Instead you will be put to trial, to make sure all know your judgement abides by the Lex Imperialis."

Faces brightened all around and Toran said, "This is excellent news, a trial will allow us to defend ourselves publically. We can show everybody that we are not the heretics they fear us to be."

Yet Imix refuted that notion, "Understanding eludes you, the decision has already been made. The trial is a mere formality, a way to pretend all is just and make it so none can protest your condemnation. Yet there is another, more harrowing path."

Toran's one eye narrowed and he asked suspiciously, "What path?"

Imix replied softly, "The Great One offers you a Ppolom, a bargain of plea. If you will cease your protests and accept his judgement he will allow your Chapter to continue to exist. You will be sent to seek whatever fate awaits you in the darkness between the stars, none shall speak of you again but you shall live. Your homeworld, your protectorates and most precious relics will be left behind, given over to a new Primaris Chapter.

Arvael gasped aloud, "Exile?"

Imix nodded and said, "It is your best option."

Glances spread around the group as everybody absorbed this information, taking in the harrowing news. It was a terrible price, one that would shame the Storm Heralds forevermore but it was still a form of survival. As shameful as it was it would at least let them continue to exist and fight for Terra.

But then Toran inhaled deeply and said, "No, we cannot accept this."

Imix's face was stern as he said, "You cannot think to stand against the Great One's will."

Yet Toran refused to back down and stated, "To accept this is to admit to crimes we did not commit, that strikes at the heart and soul of us. The Storm Heralds are not Heretics and we will die before suffering such dishonour."

"You will most certainly die," Imix whispered.

At that Furion stepped in to say, "If we are to die then we will die as we have lived, facing those who would destroy us with our heads held high. Ever have we fought to defend our ideals: loyalty, integrity and humble service and we will die before abandoning those principles."

Toran's jaw set and Arvael knew he would not be swayed as he declared, "If our gene-father wants to order our destruction, then he will have to look us in the eye as he does so."

Imix sighed, "Rigid pride and stubbornness, I expected no less from you."

"Would you have chosen any differently?" Toran asked.

Imix's eye gleamed as he said, "No, I would not. But first there is a matter of security, for none may enter the Great One's presence without being screened."

Everybody bristled at that and Arvael said, "You will psychically scan us?"

"Not I," Imix replied, "I am not considered impartial, you must first face the Grey Knights."

There was a moment of silence then Persion laughed aloud, "Ha! I'm sorry Imix but you have been set up. The Grey Knights aren't real; they're a myth, no more real than the Sanguinor or the Legion of the Damned."

Yet the laughter died as the door opened and another figure entered, this one clad in grey armour covered in eldritch runes of power. He was an Astartes but to Arvael his mind shone as a brilliant ray of purity. His aura was as the swift mountain stream that ran from a glacier, pure and potent, clean as the virgin snow and cold, the bitter icy chill that could freeze a man to his bones in a heartbeat.

Imix turned to greet this stranger and said, "Meet Hypras, Brother-Librarian of Titan."

Silence fell as jaws dropped and everybody drank in the sight of the Grey Knight, then Persion gasped, "Grey Knights are real, the Grey Knights are real?! All my life I thought them a myth but here they…."

Arvael winced as Imix's mind stirred, easily crushing the consciousness's of all present. There was no hint of resistance or struggle from anyone, the Shade-Seer's merely grasped their minds and held them still and as he did so he peeled back their mental walls, leaving them exposed and helpless. A heartbeat later Hypras' telepathic probes sank deeply into the Storm Herald's psyches, turning over memories and examining their characters. Arvael could feel him perusing their thoughts and ideals, examining their identities and morals as a surgeon would a suspicious organ. Even their hypno-indoctrination was tested, every possible aspect of their being inspected for corruption. It was a dazzling display of skill, but most astonishingly to Arvael was the fact Hypras was doing it to everybody in the room simultaneously. Arvael was amazed by the power and skill on display and more than ever it was driven home how junior he was in comparison to these Psykers.

After a minute Hypras growled, "They do not believe themselves corrupt; they pass the first test but only the first. They must yet face judgement and it will be their end."

"Thus they have chosen," Imix stated frankly, "We cannot overturn free will."

Hypras' mind twitched and Arvael hissed as he beheld the memory of the last few minutes being excised from the Storm Herald's minds. Arvael saw Imix place a finger to his lips and he knew it was a message to keep silent, Librarian or not, none could be allowed to spread word of the Grey Knights.

Hypras nodded in satisfaction then turned to stride out of the room, leaving no memory that he was ever there. Everybody was still for a moment then Persion declared, "I'm sorry Imix, but you have been set up. The Grey Knights aren't real; they're a myth, no more real than the Sanguinor or the Legion of the Damned."

"Oh dear," Imix keened, "It seems I am the fool in this."

"Rest assured none shall hear of it from us," Toran stated, "But we shall face our gene-father, at least once before our doom falls."

Imix replied sadly, "Your choice is made and I shall take word to the Great One forthwith."

With that he turned and departed leaving the Storm Heralds to plan their defence. The others seemed confident that there was a way to resolve this but Arvael wondered if perhaps they might have been wiser to accept the deal.


	29. Chapter 29

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 29**

They waited, there was nothing to do, save sit in their gaol and wait. Each minute crawled by as the appointed hour closed, yet at the same time the interval seemed all too brief. Their trial was coming and the Storm Heralds knew it would be the moment that determined all their fates.

Captain Toran had tried brushing up on the Lex Imperialis, Imix bringing them a dozen weighty tomes dealing with past legal cases. Toran had waded through case after case, reading of judgements and penances, turning dusty pages as ancient history passed before his eyes. Toran's head ached from the convoluted procedures and caveats, contradictory rulings and references to events he had no knowledge of. Trying to understand Imperial law was a fool's errand, ten thousand years of lawmaking, rulings and precedents made any genuine comprehension of the law an impossibility. There was too much here for one mind, even an Astartes, to truly remember and Toran was only looking at previous cases of judgements upon Space Marine Chapters.

Toran sighed and sat back on his stool, rubbing his augmetic eye as his head pounded. Sitting across the low table from him Furion looked up from his own tome and asked, "Find anything?"

Toran sighed, "Nothing useful, it's a hodge-podge of contradictions and paradoxes. No two rulings agree, it seems Imperial law is made up on the spot by whatever judge is presiding."

Furion disagreed, "Not so, there's always a legal precedent, sometimes truly obscure but it's there."

Toran chewed his jaw and said, "If only we could talk to Ajax, he must have seen something useful in his five thousand years."

Suddenly Novak looked up from another book and declared, "Wait, here in 352.M36, the Charnel Guard Chapter was absolved of all sins despite an earlier condemnation!"

Arvael leaned over from his own stool and said, "What? Let me see that… oh… no, no that won't work. The Captain has to first defeat a Lacrymole invasion. "

Toran sighed as he looked about, seeing Persion, Jediah, Orath and Memnos sullenly flicking through their own books. It was obvious they were lost in the dense legal text but they persisted anyway, trying to contribute something. Novak, who was far smarter than he let on, turned over a page and said, "Whoever wrote these had no concept of life on the front lines. These judgements make no sense at all, heroes are cast down while rogues are raised up."

Toran shook his head and said, "I think we're not going to find a loophole in these, we don't even know the specific charges they will bring. We may have to wing it."

Furion's eyes narrowed and he said, "That doesn't fill me with confidence."

Toran shrugged, "We're going up against a Primarch, but maybe we can sway the room to our side."

However Arvael refuted that, "The Lord Guilliman is both judge and jury in this affair, his decision is the only one that matters."

Toran was about to speak again but at that moment the Custodes at the door called, "It's time."

"Already?!" Toran spluttered as he rose to his feet but then the door slid open to reveal a party of warriors in Ultramarine blue. Each one of them was adorned with heroic emblems and eagle winged facemasks, they bore weighty power weapons in their hands and upon their shoulders were the noble icons of the Ultramarines. They were the Victrix Guard, bodyguards to Roboute Guilliman himself, but at their head was one even more glorious than they.

Toran blinked in surprise as he thought he saw his own reflection staring back at him, a blue-clad warrior with a red cloak and golden ranks chains. But then he saw the difference, the helm was crowned with a horizontal crest and this amour bore weighty 'U' icons. His pauldrons were covered with golden panels and upon his breast hung the Eternium Ultra. Despite never having met him Toran recognised this hero, all in this age would, for his name was legendary. The officer stepped into the room, before removing his helm to reveal a stern face with spiky white hair. He looked over the Storm Heralds with disdain, then imperiously declared, "You have the honour of being addressed by I, Cato Sicarius, Knight Champion of Macragge, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of Ultramar. I am here to escort you to your trial."

Toran was set back by the supercilious address but bit back a retort and instead said, "I am Captain Toran of the Storm Heralds. May I ask when our armour will be returned to us?"

Cato Sicarius sniffed, "Such honours are above the likes of you."

Furion stepped in to say, "You expect us to meet the Lord Guilliman dressed in shrifts?"

Cato Sicarius was unsympathetic as he replied, "Yes."

Toran wanted to protest but knew it was useless arguing so instead said, "Then we shall depart, but first we must make a detour to speak to our fallen Dreadnought. We have had no contact with him since we arrived."

Cato Sicarius snorted, "You presume much."

Yet Novak interrupted, picking up a book to say, "By the ruling of Legate Jan Jarahaa, 998.M38, we invoke our right to seek counsel from our Venerable elders before our trial."

"Let me see that," Cato Sicarius snapped as he grabbed the book. He examined the text in detail then admitted, "You have that right, but be quick, the trial begins within the hour."

He stepped aside to allow the Storm Heralds to leave and as Toran passed he whispered, "Know that I, Cato Sicarius, will be watching your every move."

Toran kept a rude retort to himself as they were led down the corridors of the Macragge's Honour. They were surrounded by the Victrix Guard, with the Custodes two steps behind. They passed various crew and Marines on the way, who hastily stepped aside. Toran tried to ignore their hushed whispers, the muttering about criminals in their midst and kept his head held high.

As they walked Furion tried to engage with their jailors by asking, "I have always wondered, with the Custodes present what function does the Victrix Guard perform?"

Cato Sicarius answered proudly, "The Adeptus Custodes supports this Crusade and its designated commander, they recognise that preserving the Imperium is essential to the preservation of the life of the Emperor. The Victrix Guard is purer in role; ten champions of the Ultramarines dedicated to safeguarding the Avenging Son himself."

Toran saw an opportunity and enquired, "Any advice for when we meet him?"

Cato Sicarius unbent ever so slightly and said, "Under no circumstances call him a Demi-god; it deeply vexes him when people regard him as a religious icon. Neither bother asking him about the Great Crusade, his Brother Primarchs or the Emperor, everybody tries but he won't speak of them. The past is the past and he has no wish to revisit it, stick to the now and the future."

Toran accepted this as they walked on, pressing ever deeper into the Macragge's Honour. Soon they came to a heavy set door, reinforced with huge hinges and cross bracing. The Victrix Guard paused and the Storm Heralds were directed to enter and as they did so their commander uttered, "Make it quick, the Lord of Ultramar expects you to be on time and I, Cato Sicarius, will not disappoint him."

Hastily they stepped into the darkness beyond the open door and Toran heard Orath grumble, "I have never met a Space Marine who's head was further up his own arse than his."

Toran hastily led them further into the vault, finding it to be a small forge-fane. A gaggle of Techpriests hung around the corners, tending to strange devices and blessing the pipe- encrusted walls with incense. Smoke and steam billowed everywhere but Toran ignored it all, his gaze fixed upon the centre of the room where the unmistakable sight of Ajax rested.

Toran gasped as he saw Ajax's limbs had not been replaced, his wrecked arms laying upon pedestals, right where he could see them. His legs had been removed too, leaving him as a large box, unable to move or fight. Yet Ajax's spirit seemed to be unbroken and his anger waxed hot as he constantly roared, "HARLOTS, KNAVES, CURS AND BASTARDS! YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS! GIVE ME MY WEAPONS AND I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET THIS PERFIDY!"

Toran hurriedly stepped up to the sarcophagus and called, "Honourable Ajax, it is us."

Ajax didn't seem to notice them, roaring, "YOU WILL DIE! ALL OF YOU WILL DIE BY MY HAND!"

Toran tried again calling, "Ajax! We are here!"

"I'LL KILL YOU ALL! NONE SHALL BE SPARED!" Ajax bellowed.

Suddenly Arvael stepped forward, placing his hand upon the sarcophagus and whispered, "Focus…"

Ajax's tirade cut off as his sensor dome turned then he spat, "FINALLY, WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

Toran was glad to hear Ajax focussing and said, "Honourable Brother, we seek your wisdom."

Ajax responded, "THAT SMOKE JAGUAR CAME TO EXPLAINED THE SITUATION, TELL ME WHAT HAS HAPPENED SINCE."

Toran hastily explained, "The Lord Guilliman wishes us to be put on trial, he wants us officially destroyed but it's also a chance to redeem ourselves. We can defend ourselves, before all our detractors."

Toran waited for Ajax to respond but there was only silence, eventually Arvael queried, "Ajax?"

Ajax finally responded, "I AM TRYING TO DETERMINE IF YOU ARE JESTING OR MONUMENTALLY STUPID."

"Excuse me?" Toran started.

Ajax snorted, "THE VERDICT WILL BE PASSED BEFORE YOU EVEN STEP INTO THE COURT, IF YOU BELIEVE DIFFERENTLY YOU ARE A FOOL. THIS WILL BE A PANTOMIME, MERELY A WAY TO RUBBERSTAMP A DECISION ALREADY MADE."

Toran shook his head and said, "I can't accept that, I can't believe Guilliman of all people would deny us our right to defend ourselves. He wrote the precepts of Imperial law; he stressed the need for impartiality."

Ajax growled, "HOW CAN YOU BE SO NAIVE?"

Deeply concerned Toran asked, "What are we to do then?"

Ajax was silent a long moment then uttered, "HERE IS WHAT YOU DO: PLEAD IGNORANCE AND PLACE THE BLAME SOLELY ON ME. WHATEVER CHARGES ARE LEVIED, YOU SAY I WAS BEHIND IT ALL."

Toran gasped, "I can't do that!"

Ajax snapped back, "YOU MUST, THIS CAN ONLY BE SETTLED IN BLOOD. PROVIDE HIM WITH A SCAPEGOAT AND YOU MAY ONLY GET AWAY WITH A LIGHT PENANCE."

The words stunned Toran as the possibility unfolded, it was a shallow and base idea but might be their only way to avoid this doom. Sometimes in battle sacrifices had to be made, he knew that from hard experience. Could he do it though, Toran wondered, could he countenance chucking Ajax out the airlock? For a second he weighed the idea but then all that they had suffered together came back to him, all the battles they had waded through side by side. Ajax was not some mere machine, he was a Brother, to blame him for crimes he did not commit was a violation of everything Toran had ever stood for.

Firmly he said, "No, never, we shall not sacrifice you over someone else's lie."

Sternly Ajax intoned, "I AM EXPENDABLE."

Yet Toran rebuked him, "No Ajax, I won't do it. There is more at stake here than our lives, our dearest principles are under threat. To do as you ask would mean forsaking all that we have ever fought for. Abandon our ideals and we might slither away from this, but we would no longer be Storm Heralds. If we are in fact doomed then we shall pass together, upholding our principles to our last breath."

Ajax growled, "HONOURABLE TO THE LAST, IT WILL BE THE DEATH OF YOU."

Toran spied Cato Sicarius approaching and knew their time was up so he hastily asked, "Is there any other advice you can offer?"

"ONLY THIS," Ajax replied, "WHEN YOU MEET GUILLIMAN DO NOT MAKE THE MISTAKE OF SEEING HIM AS A PRIMARCH OR AS OUR GENE-FATHER. THIS IS THE MAN WHO SEEKS TO DESTROY US, SEE HIM AS NOTHING BUT ANOTHER ENEMY AND YOU MIGHT FIND A WAY THROUGH."

"I will," Toran promised.

Any further conversation was cut short as Cato Sicarius arrived and declared, "Your time is up and judgement awaits."

"Very well," Toran conceded, "We are ready. Take us to meet Guilliman so we can look our accusers in the eye and show the Imperium that the Storm Heralds remain loyal and pure."


	30. Chapter 30

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 30**

The courtroom was the size of a cathedral, lined on both sides with ascending pews. Far above cyber-cherubs flitted to and fro under fantastic murals, chanting ancient litanies. The pews were packed with important dignitaries, Lords Militant, Admirals, Chapter Masters, Primaris Commanders, Apostle-militants and others of rarer order. Anyone entering such a place should be bowled over by the majesty and importance of such a gathering, yet Toran barely saw any of it. The Storm Heralds were marching down the central aisle in their coarse shrifts, passing before the dignitaries with their heads held high. To Toran they were merely vague blurs and the beauty of the setting a plain backcloth, for his gaze was fixed upon one spot, one being who filled the room in with his sheer presence.

At the far end of the courtroom the Primarch Roboute Guilliman sat in a large throne set upon a dais, surrounded by savants and clerics. The Imperial Regent was clad in an ornate suit of armour, more potent and glorious than any Toran had ever seen. His left hand was encased in the mythical Hand of Dominion and across his knees was a blade that shimmered with an inner fire. Toran's hearts nearly stopped when he realised it was nothing less than the Sword of the Emperor, the blade wielded by Him on Terra when He cast down the Arch-Traitor Horus. Guilliman's face was regal, dignified and strong, with a stern visage and an unforgiving cast to his eye. He looked clever and driven, handsome in the way a bolter was handsome, but there was deep-seated anger in his gaze. Upon his head rested golden laurels and the air shimmered with his sheer majesty, his presence dominating the entire room, even when sitting absolutely still.

As the Storm Heralds walked closer clerics called out the Lord Guilliman's many titles but Toran heard none of them for his hearts were torn in two. His gene-seed was telling him that he was approaching a demi-god, a mighty avatar of the Emperor's will, perfect and flawless in ways no mortal could comprehend. It felt wrong to be on his feet in Guilliman's presence, some instinct screamed that he should be on his knees, abasing himself before his gene-father. Yet in Toran's mind another voice was shouting at him to get over that and see clearly.

The only way he could articulate it was like his two eyes were telling him different things, his organic eye beheld an Angel sent from on high but his augmetic one saw a man. Part of Toran saw Guilliman as a being as quantifiable as any other, a gene-forged transhuman built to a standard beyond Astartes, Primaris or Custodes, but still flesh and blood. Toran's augmetic eye told him that Guilliman looked frustrated; there was weariness in the cast of his jaw, sadness was in his eyes and an impatient grimace marred his cheek, speaking volumes about what he thought of this trial. Toran was seeing both images at once, but Ajax's words rang in his ears and he chose to shut out all but the most base perceptions, telling himself this was no demi-god but a man, a man who was trying to destroy the Storm Heralds.

Finally the party reached the foot of the dais and there they paused. They looked up, for even sitting down Guilliman towered over them, and heard the first words that their gene-father had ever said to any Storm Herald: "Let's get this over with."

Toran's knees twinged, trying to make him prostrate before the Primarch, but he overrode them with sheer will and forced his lips to say, "My Lord Guilliman, we greet…"

Guilliman cut him off with a wave of the hand saying, "You have already wasted too much of my time, I want to pronounce your sentence as quickly as possible. Read out the charges."

From his side a Space Marine stepped forward, one in red armour that could only belong to Jaric Phoros. The Master of the Fire Lords read aloud from a scroll, "The Storm Heralds Chapter is accused of conduct unbecoming the Adeptus Astartes. First of following deviant religious creeds, second of spreading them to the masses and third turning upon the Imperium it is sworn to serve."

"How do you plead?" Guilliman uttered.

"Not guilty," Toran answered.

Guilliman's brow lifted incredulously and he said, "A bold choice, since everybody knows you are guilty."

Jaric Phoros took up the role of prosecutor and said, "Reports come to us that your Chapter engages in the worship of the Emperor, of praying instead of fighting as is the Astartes' role."

"Who says this?" Toran pressed.

"Reliable sources," Jaric replied dismissively.

Toran's mind flashed back to the books he had read and he declared, "According to the protocols of adjudication set down in 113.M32 an Astartes officer has the right to face his accusers."

Suddenly a cleric leant over and began whispering in Guilliman's ear. Toran's organic eye showed him a wise lord accepting counsel but his augmetic one betrayed the slightest consternation to the Primarch's face. Suddenly a thought hit Toran, Guilliman hadn't known about that ruling, how could he? Imperial law was ten thousand years of dense legal writ, oft-contradictory and nonsensical. Could Guilliman have memorised every line of the Book of Judgement? Could anyone, even a Primarch, do such a thing?

Guilliman eventually nodded and waved forward a black-armoured women in a wide-brimmed hat, who bore the Inquisitorial mark on her breastplate. She held up a scroll and declared, "I am Inquisitor Greyfax. This list of accounts, some dating back to M38, document open defiance of the Imperial Creed with non-sanctioned worship."

Suddenly another voice arose from the packed pews, an armoured warrior in brass colours. His face was filled with an eternal anger and he pronounced, "The beliefs of the Astartes are not on trial here! So long as we fight for the God-Emperor, our right to practice our own interpretation of the Imperial Creed is inviolable."

This must be High Marshall Hellbrecht, Toran realised as the Emperor-worshipping Black Templar sat back down. Toran barely saw him though, his gaze instead fixed on Guilliman. The Primarch betrayed a flinch of annoyance but quickly mastered it and said, "So long as you fight for Terra, a claim that one of your own has called into doubt."

Toran's knees quivered at the accusation, but he refused to kneel as he declared, "The Storm Heralds have ever fought for Terra!"

Yet Phoros spat, "We hear you spend most of your time fighting yourselves."

Toran faced Phoros and growled, "Our Chapter Master was slain in an attempted coup, but those responsible were defeated in turn. Any whom followed them were sent on a Penitent Crusade, now we are comprised solely of those loyal and true."

Another voice arose as Shade-Seer Imix stood up from the crowd. He lifted a scroll high and proclaimed, "Truth! I saw with my own eyes the Storm Heralds fight for the Imperium at Angle's Redoubt. If any doubt my word then read this missive, sealed with the sigil of Ulysses of the Ashen Knights! He swears that he saw the Storm Heralds fight the vile Word Bearers, to protect the innocent and the helpless. Even facing impossible odds they refused to yield and placed themselves between the poison of Chaos and the innocent!"

Toran was glad of Imix's testimony but Guilliman's eyes narrowed as he spat, "You seem to have answers for the first and last charges, but what of the second? What of the reports that your Chapter preaches to the masses, burning any texts that refute your creed. Torturing those who resist and subverting Imperial citizens to your twisted creed."

Toran's heart fell, for he could not deny such accusations, he had seen his Brothers undertake such acts with his own eyes. He swallowed nervously before saying, "I cannot deny we once performed such deeds."

Guilliman snorted, "From your own lips you confess to your crimes, you are as guilty as the whoreson Word Bearers. Hellbrecht, do you have anything to say on this matter?"

There was a notable silence from the packed audience but Toran lifted his voice to argue, "I said we once did such things. A previous generation of Storm Heralds was woefully misguided, but we have since abandoned such practices."

Yet Guilliman uttered coldly, "You mean as soon as you heard of my return, one message and you instantly changed your ways. You thought only to conceal your crimes."

Toran's knees tried to give way but instead he desperately stammered, "I admit mistakes were made, but we have set them right. We recognised our error and made sure to correct it."

Suddenly Guilliman jerked forward in his throne and spat, "Are you trying to be funny?!"

Toran blinked in confusion and croaked, "Errr…no."

Guilliman glared at him sternly for a moment, boring into the heart of him, then muttered, "I see you have never been to Fenris."

Toran didn't understand what that meant but implored, "My Lord, these accusations against us were made by a turncoat from our ranks. He casts us in the worst possible light, but we are not what he says. We are loyal, to you and to Him on Terra. We desire only to follow you, to serve the most glorious instrument of the Emperor."

"Stop," Guilliman growled dangerously as a wave of terrible anger crossed his face, "You will not call me a tool, I am no rasp!"

Total silence descended as the Imperial Regent snarled, "You seek to justify your crimes, to expunge them with later good deeds, but to stop committing a crime does not absolve you of it. You cannot deny your deviant Chapter has fallen under the sway of madmen and zealots, you are no better than the accursed XVII Legion! This rot has gone too far already and it cannot be ignored, some among the Astartes may hold their own unique beliefs, but I will not tolerate proselytising. You are guilty."

Toran's hearts fell and he knew that was a message to all the Chapters present but behind him he heard Jediah whisper, "We're Frakked." The words sparked something in his memory, something Jediah had said earlier, and Toran scrambled to remember what it was. Guilliman was still speaking but Toran racked his brain, then it came to him and he realised there was still one option he had not tried.

Guilliman was still speaking, "Thus I shall lay judgement upon you."

Toran had nothing left to lose so raised his head and interrupted, "We do not accept your authority in this matter!"

A sudden flurry of muttering swept the packed seats but Guilliman's face darkened as he growled, "You dare defy this court?!"

Toran's words were spilling from his lips even as they came to him, "You wrote the precepts of the Lex Imperialis and you decreed was that justice must always be impartial and unbiased. This court is neither, you made your decision before we even entered the room, you are biased! This court is no place of justice; it is a sham to discredit those who resent your rule."

Guilliman's face was as stone and he spat, "You play a dangerous game."

However Toran declared, "Since we can find no justice here we call upon the highest authority: the Emperor himself. By the Conclave of Ette 354.M36 I, being an officer of the Adeptus Astartes, demand a Trial by Combat!"

Now the crowd did erupt into gales of shouting, voices raised in denial or support. Those who denied the right was valid set against those who supported it. Yet Toran's eyes were fixed solely upon the Primarch, watching his jaw clench and he hissed, "You think to avoid your due punishment with trickery."

Toran's knees were quivering but he refused to yield as he stared at the Imperial Regent and stated, "Name your champion and I shall meet him in the duelling ring, to demonstrate the Storm Herald's worthiness."

There was the sudden grinding noise of the great throne being pushed back and Guilliman took the Sword of the Emperor in his grip as he stood up to his full, majestic height. The Primarch glared down at the diminutive form of Toran and silence fell as all waited for his response. Then Guilliman spoke to one and all, "I need no champion to fight for me, I shall meet you in combat myself."

Utter silence fell across the hall as dumbfounded jaws hung slackly and all tried to grasp the meaning of this. But Toran's hearts were plummeting in his chest as the stunning realisation crept over him that he had just made a titanic blunder, the single biggest mistake of his life. Without meaning to Toran had just staked the existence of his Chapter, and all he held dear, on the outcome of him duelling a Primarch.


	31. Chapter 31

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 31**

They had returned his armour, at least that was something. The ceramite embraced him closely, its spirit missing its bearer as much as he missed it. The power armour responded smoothly and surely, its servos boosting his strength and speed as he ran through a series of warm-up exercises. Toran hadn't realised how much he missed his plate, it was just a shame that it would make no difference at all.

This duelling hall was an amphitheatre, filled with rings of stone benches. Those seats were filled to capacity, thousands of dignitaries all expecting to see Toran's humiliation. Robes of all colours were present, while others wore Ceramite of various hues, the Astartes and Primaris not want to miss out on this either. The noise of their chatter was immense but to one accustomed to the battlefield it was not hard to tune them out.

Toran finished his exercises and turned to face his comrades, still in their shrifts, and said, "Any advice?"

Furion's face filled with concern as he answered, "Yes, don't do this. He'll kill you."

Persion agreed, "Captain, he's going to turn you into a bloody smear on the floor."

Novak concurred, "Captain, you should let me do this, I am your Champion."

Toran's eyes fell to Novak's wrist and he said, "Not with that hand, you can barely hold a sword. Besides for this to mean anything it has to be me."

Their conversation was cut short as the Lord Guilliman entered the arena. All fell silent as the Primarch entered, his armour gleaming and his face betraying impatience. Guilliman strode confidently to the duelling ring, with his Victrix Guard flanking him. He stopped at the edge and began talking to Cato Sicarius while Toran turned to his comrades saying, "Don't worry, I have a plan."

They retired, muttering to among themselves save Furion, who proffered a plain sword as he whispered, "Toran, I've known you for over a century. I know when you're lying."

Toran swallowed slightly and took the blade as he replied in a hushed voice, "Don't let on that I have no idea what I'm doing, the others will worry."

Furion looked at him and said, "I don't know what madness overtook you to challenge him but trust in it, sanity can't help you this day."

There was a suddenly a stir of awed whispering and Toran turned to see Guilliman taking the Sword of the Emperor in his hands. For a moment Toran actually thought he was going to use it but then he placed the scabbard length-wise in Cato Sicarius's arms. He held out his left arm and a gaggle of tech-priests reverently disengaged the Hand of Dominion. Then the Imperial Regent took up a sword, identical to Toran's own, a demonstration to all that the odds were fair, though in his hand the two-handed sword looked more like a short gladius.

The Primarch stepped into the ring and formally stated, "This duel shall determine the fate of the deviant Storm Heralds Chapter, who faces me?"

Toran swallowed nervously and donned his helm, then stepped forward and declared, "I fight for the Storm Heralds!"

Guilliman didn't bother donning his own helm, Toran could hardly reach his head anyway, and he uttered, "Still not too late to submit."

Toran took his plain sword in his hands and stunned at his own defiance, replied, "If I am to die then I shall die proudly, fighting to the last."

Guilliman snorted, "Useless bravado, come on then."

The crowd began to whisper amongst themselves as Guilliman stood stock still, waiting for Toran to move. The Captain was puzzled, he had expected Guilliman to come at him like a raging ambull, but the Primarch seemed content to let him make the first move. Warily Toran edged nearer and made a probing thrust, testing Guilliman's response. Yet the Primarch waved it off with a simple counter, keeping his intent veiled. Toran cautiously probed left, then feinted right before suddenly lunging upwards, trying to catch him off guard. Yet Guilliman didn't even blink as his own sword swung to parry, deflecting the blow with ease. Instantly Toran swung wide and tried to slash at the Primarch's flank but the Imperial Regent's sword was already there, deflecting the blow away. Toran was growing concerned, his every move was being countered with ease and he hadn't even forced Guilliman to move his feet yet.

Suddenly a lightning-fast counter came out of nowhere and he threw himself backwards, peddling away from the Primarch's thrust. Guilliman at last took a step forward and uttered, "Your swordwork is dull, predictable and slow. What were you thinking to challenge me?"

Toran drew in a breath to respond but in his instant of distraction Guilliman lunged, right at Toran's head. The Captain barely had time to duck as the sword passed by but too late he realised that a killing blow was not Guilliman's intent. The blade slashed through his gorget, severing power lines and nicking his neck before it struck his Iron Halo and sheared it off completely.

The crowd began cheering as Toran fell back, desperately wrenching his powerless helm free. His neck was bleeding profusely, but more worryingly was the sparking mess right behind his head, the forcefield generator would play no part in this. Toran expected a quick blow would finish him off but when he looked up Guilliman was standing still, letting him recover. Drawing it out to send a message to those watching. Toran realised then that caution and cleverness were getting him nowhere, Guilliman would take him apart piece by piece. A surge of resentful anger swelled within him and Toran did not try to fight it. He gripped his sword firmly in both hands and leapt at Guilliman, swinging wildly for his hearts. Guilliman's sword countered easily but Toran lashed out again and again, striking with all his speed and power. In his mind he remembered the betrayals wrought against him, the hatred of Megaro and the double-crossing of Kieva and his pained outrage pushed him into a frenzy.

Toran channelled that anger into a flurry of blows, striking as fast and surely as he ever had. He let his pain push him beyond his limits and his rage lent strength to his arm. It was as deadly an onslaught as he had ever unleashed and yet every blow was countered, every thrust parried. Toran was fighting to the utmost but hadn't even made contact yet. Guilliman effortlessly blocked each attack with ease, precisely moving to deny Toran's attacks before he even made them. Toran suddenly realised that everything so far was nothing but a learning exercise to the Primarch. Guilliman had thoroughly deconstructed Toran's style and extrapolated all his moves from a few exchanged blows. The Primarch had studied the Captain and now knew what Toran would do before he himself did. It was an amazing display of intellect, but it was one Toran knew how to counter.

Suddenly Toran reversed his swing, moving the sword hand over hand in a clockwise motion. It was a clumsy move, more suited to a chainglaive than a sword, but it was completely at odds with his customary style. Guilliman was caught off guard and his blade was knocked a hair out of alignment. Instantly Toran freed one hand from his hilt and leapt high. His boots left the floor as his arm extended upwards and he felt his armoured knuckles make the briefest contact with Guilliman's jaw. Aghast silence fell as the crowd stopped cheering, stunned by this turn of events. Toran for his part landed on his feet and was dumbfounded by the blow, he had landed a punch, he actually had punched Guilliman in the jaw!

Unfortunately the only person who wasn't frozen was the Primarch, whose right fist caught Toran with a scornful backhand. Toran was sent flying, soaring backwards across the ring as his rank chains shattered into a million pieces. He landed on his back and gasped as he felt broken ribs moving within him and a wheeze in his chest told him that his right lung had collapsed. From a distance he heard Furion calling, "For Throne's sake stay down!" Yet Toran ignored it, drunkenly rolling over and lurching back to his feet.

His head was swimming and the room was a smear of colour but he spied Guilliman approaching. The Primarch's face was a mask of anger and he growled, "Do you think to impress me with this display? I know, to the atom, the tolerances of an Astartes, this defiance changes nothing."

The sword came at Toran and he desperately fought it off, his parries becoming clumsy as his ribs moved in ways they shouldn't. He fell back, fighting for his life as he cried, "I'm trying to make you see we are no threat to you! We are loyal and pure. We wish only to serve you, to be counted amongst the weapons of the Imperium."

Guilliman's patience snapped and his fist flew at Toran's face, faster and more powerful than anything the Captain had ever seen. The blow caught him in the side of the head and he was sent spinning uncontrollably through the air in a blur of mad confusion. Toran slammed into the ground and rolled over and over as Guilliman bellowed, "Do not call me a weapon! I am nobody's tool!"

Toran flopped helplessly on the ground, his left cheekbone was smashed to pieces and his eye was swollen shut, without his augmetic he would be completely blind. He vomited blood and shattered teeth profusely and tried to shake off the unfamiliar sensation of a concussion. Yet somewhere in that dizzying haze his thoughts were shouting to him that the blow had been powered by a feral anger, Guilliman had exposed a raw nerve, this issue was deeply personal to him. The crowd was cheering again but Toran painfully forced himself back onto his feet and swayed drunkenly as he faced the Primarch. Guilliman readied his sword but Toran did not move to attack, instead mumbling through a mouthful of blood, "No… you are not. All my life I heard the legend of... the Primarch, but when I saw you in person… I beheld not a legend… but a man. The legend I knew was glorious… yet it described nothing but a weapon… a tool of conquest."

"You want to die!" Guilliman snarled and his boot lashed out, catching Toran in the hip. Ceramite armour cracked and the Captain screamed as he felt his hip implode, the genhanced bone breaking like glass. He staggered away; held upright only by his lurching plate, which itself was bleating alarms as it failed. Toran clasped one hand to his broken side and felt his other lung giving up, only his multi-lung was keeping him alive now. His head rolled back but he knew his words had made an impact and he wheezed, "No… I'm trying to give you a choice… man or weapon. A man would see that I am… no heretic, I never was. Killing me is pointless, my Chapter is… loyal. A man could see that and change his mind, but a weapon… a weapon wouldn't hesitate to kill me."

With a furious roar Guilliman charged, swinging his hand in a lightning blow. Toran was caught in the chest and his breastplate was crushed inwards as he was thrown to the ground, skidding backwards on his arse with jagged Ceramite shards digging into his flesh. Toran felt like every bone in his body was broken and a weakness in his chest told him that his primary heart had stopped beating. Darkness was crushing his mind and he faintly heard Furion shouting, "Stay down! Damn you Toran, stay down!"

Yet even as a black haze filled his mind Toran forced his broken body back up. He couldn't feel his hands anymore and his sword dropped from his numb fingers, but somehow he managed to regain his feet. His augmetic eye beheld Guilliman looming over him, glaring down with fury in his eyes, but Toran refused to give up. Defiantly Toran glared up at the Primarch, daring him to strike and so prove himself nothing but a weapon.

An eternity passed as the pair faced off and everybody waited to see how Guilliman would react. Then finally the Primarch growled, "I yield."

The crowd fell into shocked silence as Guiliman dropped his sword and announced, "I will not kill this one! It would be easy, far too easy, but I choose to spare him. You were right about one thing, Storm Herald: I am no rasp."

With that he turned and strode away, leaving the crowd utterly stunned. Yet Toran did not see that, for he was busy falling backwards and before his head even hit the ground he had slipped into a coma.


	32. Chapter 32

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 32**

"This is intolerable!" The voice of Megaro spat, filled with indignation and righteous fury. He filled the quarters with outraged denial, his wrath ringing from the walls as he shouted at Captain Kieva. Megaro's face was filled with raw anger and his fists were clenched, making the fibrebundles of his power armour whirr as they tried to squeeze harder than their tolerances allowed.

Standing at the far end of the room Lieutenant Smyth idled, letting the words wash over him. He was stood at attention, alongside Yones and Ingvis as they awaited their Captain's pleasure. His hand rested upon the hilt of his new relic blade and as the tirade continued he let the last day resurface in his memory. He and Captain Kieva had been present at the trial of the Storm Heralds, among the back seats where the air grew clammy and moist; rear-echelon officers could hardly expect better. Smyth had watched the twists and turns as they unfolded and had been amazed by the challenge to a duel.

The resulting duel had proceeded as he had expected, the Lord Commander tearing the insolent Toran to pieces. There hadn't even been any illicit wagering on the outcome, for none doubted that Guilliman would annihilate this impudent challenger. Indeed he had done exactly that, and Toran had proven no match for a Pimarch. Only the Lord Commander's desire to ram his point home to the audience had permitted the duel to continue past the first exchange of blows. But then the most impossible thing had happened, some words had passed between the pair, words that Smyth couldn't make out even with his enhanced hearing, and at the last moment Roboute Guilliman had chosen to show mercy. He had walked from the duelling ring and let Toran live. Smyth had been dumbstruck by these events, as had every one watching, no one had understood why or how this had occurred and the implications were still being ferociously debated by all.

Smyth's attention was snapped back to the present as Kieva, who was wearing his heavy Gravis armour, replied coolly, "It is what is it is."

Megaro glared up at the taller Primaris and spat, "I want him dead!"

Smyth butted in then to say, "He might still die, the Chirurgeons had to rush Toran to an infirmary. He's been in surgery for a full day, his organs keep failing and he is in a deep coma. I hear the odds of him ever awakening again are even at best."

Megaro's bald head snapped around and he spat, "You keep out of this, I still can't believe you are swaggering about with the Sword of Thiel!"

Kieva glared down at the Chaplain and growled, "It was my decision and I stand by it. If you have a problem with that you shall tell it to me, not him."

Megaro's lip curled but he dropped the point and instead said, "What of the other Storm Heralds?"

"Unclear," Kieva replied, "Their fates are yet to be determined. The Lord Guilliman has retired to his private quarters to contemplate matters, his only command was to await his decision."

Megaro sneered, "If he won't do the deed then I'll do it myself. Give me a bolter and I'll finish them off for you."

Kieva's eyes narrowed dangerously and he hissed, "You do not give me orders. The Lord Commander has left explicit instructions and they shall be obeyed."

"You weak-willed sop," Megaro hissed, "I knew the Primaris were new-born whelps but I never realised how soft you were. None of you would have passed the induction-trials of a true Astartes."

Kieva lips drew back in anger and he growled, "Roboute Guilliman is the Imperial Regent, to oppose his will means death."

Megaro snorted, "You cling to the coattails of others, Kieva, you have not the will to claim victory for yourself. No wonder you remain in the rear-echelon of battle."

Kieva retorted, "Maybe I should have left you on that derelict where I found you. Surrounded by death and decay, drifting endlessly through the void till the cold dark claimed your last breath."

Megaro spat back, "Sometimes I wish you had, maybe then I would have encountered somebody with an actual spine! Your will bends with the slightest of breezes but this matter is far from over. I will never forget any of my enemies nor forgive them."

Kieva sneered, "Empty threats now, I see you have nothing more to contribute. We are done here."

"On that at least we can agree," Megaro growled, "Take me back to my cell then, where I least I can be away from your face."

"Yones! Take him back to his cell," Kieva called. The Sergeant stepped up and gestured with his bolt rifle, leading Megaro out the door and disappearing down the corridor. Kieva waited a moment then sighed loudly, "Error-shunt-abort, he's a frothing madman. How did I not see it sooner?"

Smyth stepped forward and said, "He was always driven, but this has snapped his patience. Even I am surprised at his vehemence."

Kieva looked forlorn as he uttered, "I should have listened to you earlier, this is my fault. My stubborn pride blinkered me to reality. Megaro told me everything I wanted to hear, a heretic Chapter needing to be crushed, and I lapped it up like a gullible fool."

Smyth leaned closer and said, "You can't blame yourself, you are not responsible for the acts of others."

Sadly Kieva lamented, "I was blinded by the prospect of glory and missed what was going on right under my own nose."

Suddenly Ingvis joined the conversation saying, "This is pointless, we can either sit about and wallow in self-pity or we can come up with a plan."

Kieva nodded and said, "Wise words, but thankfully there is at least a hint of progress. I've been digging around in the records and managed to find traces of manipulation. It's subtle and well-hidden, but someone has been altering the records."

Smyth eagerly enquired, "Can we tell who it was?"

Kieva shook his head and said, "I'm no tech-priest, unravelling such data-mysteries are beyond me. But I did uncover that this was done by someone with high access to the system, Senior- Commander level access."

"Any clues from Fiett?" Smyth inquired.

Kieva nodded, "Megaro has been busy, he's had numerous meetings with various personages. Lots of callers coming at going at odd hours, sometimes singularly, at other times in small groups. Either way a lot of people wanted to talk to him before the trial."

Ingvis interjected then, "I recently escorted Megaro to several meetings with Jaric Phoros, the Master of the Fire Lords seems to have taken an interest in Megaro."

"A Chapter Master," Smyth murmured, "He would have the access required to manipulate the Machine Spirits and his Techmarines could easily subvert the data-protocols."

Kieva looked concerned and he muttered, "A Chapter Master is not someone to cross lightly. The Fire Lords sent half their strength to join the Crusade, five hundred heavily armed Astartes. Not to mention they brought enough incendiary bombs to scorch a continent down to glass. Making accusations against them could split the crusade in two, we would have to be certain before we could act."

Smyth concurred, "And they may not be acting alone, who knows how far this has spread."

Ingvis rubbed his chin and said, "The part that really worries me is that we still have no inkling as to what this conspiracy is trying to achieve. Why destroy Inerus? Why divert the Crusade? We've been delayed a few weeks by the Warp turbulence but no more, that's a lot of effort for very little result."

Smyth muttered, "It depends what we've missed out there, how many worlds have fallen while we sit here waiting for the warp squall to clear? Maybe the conspirators here serve a larger purpose elsewhere."

"That is a truly troubling thought," Kieva agreed, "Is this confined to the Crusade alone, or is it a vast shadow cast across the Imperium? Are we dealing with a handful of shadowy foes or hordes of enemies? If one Chapter could be involved how many others might be caught up in it too? There is no one we can trust."

Smyth ventured, "There is one force we know can't be corrupted: the Adeptus Custodes."

Kieva looked concerned but then his eyes fell and he admitted, "You're right, its past time to bring in the Custodian Guard. I had hoped to avoid such a course but this is too big for us alone, we have a thousand questions and no answers. I will speak to them myself and accept whatever consequences come from it. If I'm fortunate they won't immediately drag me into an interrogation cell and dissect me looking for answers."

Yet Ingvis was frowning thoughtfully and he remarked, "Actually, they are not the only force we know can't be involved, there is someone else."

Smyth sagged in disbelief as he said, "Please tell me you don't mean who I think you mean."

"Think about it," Ingvis argued, "They are recent arrivals, held in isolation and watched constantly. Everybody scorned them, and we know Megaro despises them. They can't be involved."

"The Storm Heralds," Smyth uttered incredulously "You really mean to ask the Storm Heralds for help?"

Ingvis cocked his head and said, "Its worth a try."

Smyth snorted at that, "May I remind you that we tricked them, double-crossed them and tried to have them convicted of Heresy. They will never forgive us."

Kieva looked thoughtful and mused, "Maybe not all of them, but perhaps one or two might listen. Those set outside the common order."

Smyth was confused by that and asked, "Who do you mean?"

Kieva replied speculatively, "Their Librarian, he might be open to the possibility, plus he's been getting close to the Smoke-Jaguar's Chief Librarian. Imix took their side, he must be outside the conspiracy."

Smyth hadn't thought of that and admitted, "I suppose it's possible, I mean we can at least try."

Kieva nodded and he declared, "So we have our plan, I will inform the Custodes, you two approach the Librarians and tell them what we have uncovered."

"You don't want to do it yourself?" Smyth asked.

But Ingvis interjected, "I think the Captain's presence would only provoke them. You seemed to get on well with the Storm Heralds, better that you speak to them. I'll come along too, just in case they try to kill you on principle."

"That is a great assurance," Smyth muttered sarcastically.

Yet Kieva ordered, "We are running out of options and also time. We need to start acting boldly if we are to get to the root of all this."

Smyth nodded, "Aye Captain, who knows maybe with their combined powers the Librarians can lift the answers from the minds of our shadowy opponents."

Kieva smiled slightly and said, "Always with the hope, Smyth, you never change."

"Proud of it Sir," Smyth replied with a grin of his own.

"Go then!" Kieva ordered, "Time is not on our side."

With that Smyth and Ingvis saluted and made their departure. They left the quarters and strode into the corridor beyond but barely had they got out of earshot when Ingvis held up his arm and said, "We need to talk."

Smyth was brought up short and spluttered, "What now?!"

Ingvis stepped closer and said, "The Storm Heralds, they are going to be grinding their gears when they see you swanking about like that."

Smyth frowned and uttered, "I haven't done anything to them."

Ingvis gestured at his hip and said, "You're walking about with their Captain's relic blade. They seemed really attached to it, losing that sword deeply troubled them."

Smyth snorted, "It's only a sword."

"Not to them," Ingvis replied, "I overheard a couple of them muttering after the trial. They are going to want it back."

"Give it back?!" Smyth spluttered, "I'm not giving it back!"

Ingvis stared icily and hissed, "I thought you said it was only a sword."

"It's… a good sword," Smyth answered lamely, "They will have to accept it has passed on to a new bearer."

"On your own head be it," Ingvis commented before striding away.

Smyth was left to follow in his wake, turning the matter over in his mind. It was true the sword had seemed important to the Heralds but he had wielded it in combat and felt its lethal power. In his heart of hearts he enjoyed the deadly advantage he had gained and knew without it he would be diminished, a far more mundane combatant. A part of him chided himself, a Primaris should be able to fight with any weapon to hand, but the truth was he didn't want to give the sword back. He sighed deeply and decided there was no use worrying about it yet, he would just have to solder that circuit when he came to it.


	33. Chapter 33

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 33**

"Will he live?" The question hung over them all, consuming their attention and driving out any other concerns. They were all on tenterhooks as they awaited the answer, each of them desperate for news. Slowly Memnos drew in a deep breath then answered, "It's too early to say."

Groans greeted that pronouncement, all the Storm Heralds being disappointed by the news. They were standing outside an operating theatre, grouped into a loose circle. Their armour had been returned to them, as had their weapons and they were now permitted to move about the Macragge's Honour. Orath in particular seemed pleased to be back in his Terminator Armour, clinging to his Thunder Hammer and Storm Shield like he never intended to let them go again. Yet it was noticeable that the pair of Custodes were still guarding their quarters, their doom had been lifted yet their status had not been determined. They were in a strange limbo, not convicted and not acquitted, so nobody seemed to know what to do with them.

Arvael cast his eye over the group, seeing all the Storm Heralds worriedly taking in the news. They were just as stunned by the outcome of the duel as anyone else, but right now their attention was fixed firmly on the Apothecary. Memnos was once more clad in his white armour, adorned with the Chains of Shame, and his wrists were speckled with Transhuman blood.

Memnos drew in a breath and said, "We were in surgery for twenty hours straight, Toran crashed three times on the table and his primary heart stopped twice. I've never seen such extensive internal damage; Guilliman smote him in ways no Astartes should be able to survive. Toran's artificial implants were rendered non-functional and his human ones are barely any better off. It's only because the Crusade's chirurgeons are so skilled that he still breathes. They have techniques and tools I've never dreamt of, frankly I was reduced to mopping foreheads in there."

"But he will live?" Furion pressed.

Memnos grimaced as he replied, "Were we at our Fortress-Monastery I would be recommending fitting out a Dreadnought Sarcophagus for Toran. As it is he's sunk into a coma, a real one not sus-an-membrane stasis."

Reluctantly Arvael queried, "What are his prospects?"

Memnos sighed, "We patched up his artificial implants as best we could. If the gene-seed can restore itself he will recover, but if the damage was too extensive then his human organs will fail one by one. It is in the hands of the Emperor, only the mysteries of His gene-craft can save Toran."

"Can we do anything?" Arvael asked.

Furion stepped in to say, "We can stand vigil, someone will wait outside this door night and day until the Captain's fate is certain. Until then there is no point in us all being here, I will take first watch, the rest of you should return to our quarters."

The group accepted this and broke up, heading in different directions. Most of them went back to their quarters, while Furion and Memnos stayed at the Apothecarion. Yet Arvael set off in a different direction, headed away from the rest. He had barely taken a few steps when he heard the heavy crumps of Orath following him, the Terminator stomping along with that high-kneed gait that Tactical Dreadnought plate demanded.

Arvael was confused and asked, "What are you doing?"

Orath's head was buried under the high hood of his plate, his helm hanging at his waist but he replied, "I'm not going back, we were stuck inside for too long."

Arvael informed, "I am to meet with Shade-Seer Imix."

Orath couldn't shrug in his armour but he muttered, "Still better than being locked up in that gaol."

Arvael was surprised, most Astartes avoided Psykers on general principle but then Orath was too proud to admit to being wary. They sank into an awkward silence as they wended their way through the Macragge's Honour. Everywhere they went crew bustled about their tasks, a mighty vessel like the Glorianna class required constant labour to maintain even when she was at rest. Astartes and the Primaris eyed them warily but no taunting remarks came their way and so the pair travelled on. Arvael wished he had time to explore so lauded a vessel as this, from the resplendent towers to the dank bilges, but time was short so he hastened his pace.

Soon he made his way to the duelling hall and entered to find Imix waiting patiently with his eyes closed. Arvael sensed his mind casually scanning the area and did not doubt he was already aware of the Storm Herald's approach. Arvael knew Imix would already know the reason for their tardiness but for formality's sake he bowed and said, "My apologies Shade-Seer, we have kept you waiting."

Imix opened his eyes and said, "You watched over your Captain, it is to be understood. The Crusade's healers do what they can, but even they have their limits."

Orath stomped to the side of the room and grumbled, "This bloody Crusade has turned out to be a sodding circus. The sooner we're out of here the better."

Imix's aura betrayed a flicker of annoyance but he smoothly said, "You do not have to be here."

"I'm not going back to my quarters to brood," Orath spat.

Arvael sensed Imix casually reaching into the mind of a passing crewman and lift some information, before declaring, "There is a training drill in the combat arena two decks up, it is open to all. You would be welcome there."

"I'm not going to train with those wretched Primaris," Orath growled.

"As you will," Imix said dismissively then turned to enquire, "Arvael, tell me what you have learnt."

Arvael glanced at Orath but he seemed content to merely stand back so the Librarian explained, "I have found physical contact is most effective."

Imix commented sagely, "Each must find his own path to understanding."

Arvael accepted this and said, "I am surprised at how well the glyph holds my power, like a charged capacitor. A big one could last for years until I trigger it."

Imix sighed, "You think of power only in terms of size. What you have not considered is that size is arbitrary to a Psyker, only in your mind does it matter. You could create a smaller glyph just as powerful, faster too."

Arvael considered it but demurred, "I doubt I could do it mid-battle, the concentration required is demanding."

"You will learn," Imix replied, "Your potential is great and…"

He trailed off as his aura flared with concern and Arvael sensed his attention swing outside of the room. Arvael stepped closer and said, "What is it?"

Imix replied, "Strangers come, determined ones who are not our friends."

Orath hefted his Thunder Hammer and said, "What did he say?"

Arvael drew his own Force Morningstar and replied, "We're about to have visitors."

All of them swung to face the door and a few moments later a pair of Primaris Marines stepped into view. One was a Reiver the other a Lieutenant but most startlingly they had faces Arvael recognised, he could hardly forget someone who had double-crossed them. The pair suddenly halted as they spied the trio facing them with weapons drawn and the officer called, "Wait, we come only to talk! It's me, Lieutenant Smyth."

Arvael felt a wave of anger building in him at the sight of the pair and he growled, "We know who you are."

Orath wasn't nearly so constrained and took a step forward growling, "You've got some damned nerve coming here."

Smyth held both hands up, palms open and said, "We aren't here to fight."

Orath's aura flared with anger but Imix intervened, "Truth, he seeks peace."

"I'll give him the peace of the grave," Orath hissed raising his Thunder Hammer.

Yet Imix took umbrage at that and fearsome shadows gathered around him as his voice echoed with terrible weight, "Do not challenge me, Son of the Ocean world. I declare a parley in this place, lay one finger on them and you shall face my wrath!"

Orath looked for a second like he would challenge Imix but then reluctantly relented and sank back. Arvael was hardly less happy and said, "Out with it then."

Smyth lowered his hands and said, "We need to talk, about what's happened and what it means."

"You mean when you double-crossed us," Orath growled.

Smyth looked down for a second and said, "I wasn't happy about it, none of us were, but we had actionable intelligence that you weren't to be trusted. We acted on the best information we had at the time."

It wasn't anywhere near an apology but Arvael knew it was the closest they were going to get and ventured, "I take it your information has changed."

The Reiver stepped forward, Ingvis Arvael recalled his name being, and said, "Aye, we went back to Inerus and discovered proof that there is a plot afoot in the Crusade. Someone has been manipulating events from behind the scenes. The curse and everything since is part of some nefarious scheme."

Arvael started for he had almost forgotten Inerus, recent events having pushed it from his mind. He frowned in confusion and said, "Who could have done such a thing?"

Smyth replied candidly, "Megaro."

"Megaro!" Orath spat, "That rabid cur!"

Smyth elaborated, "He's the one who turned us against you and everyone else. There is a conspiracy afoot and we know he is involved, he's at the heart of everything that's happened."

"Serves you scum right for trusting him," Orath snapped, "So why come to us?"

Ingvis replied, "We can't know who else is involved, anyone on board could be part of it. Except you, he hates your Chapter, you are the only ones we can be sure aren't entangled by it."

"Let me get this straight," Arvael exclaimed in utter disbelief, "You're here asking for our help?"

"Ha!" Orath snorted, "Ha, this is rich! You have some gall after what you backstabbers did."

Smyth nose wrinkled at the insult but he said, "We know the destruction of Inerus was planned. We lost good Brothers there, as did you. Those lives were taken by an enemy and they are as yet unavenged. Whoever did this is still out there, laughing at us from the shadows. They attacked the Imperium, they attacked your Chapter, are you really willing to let that pass?"

Orath went quiet and Arvael understood why, to attack a Chapter was a mortal insult, no Space Marine could let that go unaddressed, their honour demanded they strike back. Arvael drew in a breath to still his anger and asked, "What have you uncovered so far?"

Smyth stepped closer to lay out the details but as he did so Arvael's eye glimpsed the blade at his hip. He gasped at the sight of the Sword of Thiel and cried in shock, "What are you doing with that?!"

Orath saw it too and snarled, "Warp Hells! That blade is a relic of our Chapter, get it off your filthy hide this instant!"

Smyth's hand fell defensively to the hilt and he snarled, "You lost your claim to it when you were beaten."

Arvael was incensed by his presumption and the offence to his Chapter's legacy. That sword had been part of their history for five millennia and to see it in the hands of an outsider was an outrage. Angrily he growled, "You insult our ancestors, you will return it now or blood will be spilt."

Smyth's eyes narrowed and he said, "This was a mistake, you were never going to listen to reason."

Arvael reached for his power as he growled, "You're not leaving this room with that sword."

Suddenly there was a crack of thunder that echoed only in their minds and everybody staggered with a blinding migraine as Imix roared, "Cease this at once!"

Arvael withdrew as he sensed the anger tinging Imix's aura, the others froze too and fell silent as Imix uttered, "A thousand shames upon you all, squabbling amongst yourselves while enemies of the Sun-Emperor gather in the shadows. You forsake your duty for hollow pride and neglect your oaths of service!"

Orath dared to protest, "But.."

Imix ceased his mental assault but icily spat, "The sword can wait. Before you do anything I will hear more of this conspiracy."

Smyth released his grip on the Sword of Thiel and said, "We can take you to Captain Kieva, he can tell you everything."

Arvael was still simmering with anger but he knew now was not the time for this and instead said, "First we speak to Kieva, then we settle this matter between us. But make no mistake, we shall not forget the insult you have given us and we will have satisfaction."


	34. Chapter 34

**Indomitus Bellum chapter 34**

Through the passageways of the Macragge's Honour the gathering of warriors marched, heads held high and strides sure. They adroitly avoided marching columns of Guardsmen and convoys of munition pallets, the cargo hauliers that drove down wider avenues and parades of Tech-Priests that chanted binaric prayers as they displayed sacred circuits and logic-engine wafers on cushions of red velvet. None could doubt that the flagship was a fully functional warship and that her holds housed entire armies, yet the party made good progress, despite the busy traffic that swarmed in the depths of the mighty battleship.

To any outside observer they would have looked stern and focussed and yet among the group the tension was writ large. The Primaris marched at the fore; not looking back at all while at the rear followed the Storm Heralds, glaring daggers at the backs of their erstwhile guides. In the middle marched Shade-Seer Imix, keeping a discrete neutral ground between the two parties. At the head of the party Lieutenant Smyth marched, he was keeping his hands away from his weapons but every step of the way he could feel the hostile glares boring into his back. He hadn't really believed that the Storm Heralds would take such umbrage over a sword; the Tech-Priests of Mars valued mechanical devices and blessed their spirits, but were also indifferent about the soldiers who wielded them. Not so the old Astartes, their attitude towards their relics was beyond fanatical and he genuinely believed that they were actually willing to start a war over one sword.

His vox-bead tickled in his ear and he heard Ingvis sub-vocalise, "That could have gone better."

Smyth kept his face forward so the Storm Heralds wouldn't see his larynx twitching as he sub-vocalised back, "I can't imagine it going any worse."

Ingvis had the good grace not to say I told you so, but he did state, "It's not the first time this has happened."

"Oh?" Smyth asked.

Ingvis replied, "I overhead a few of the old Astartes talking once, there have been whole wars fought over a single relic. There was a Chapter that got itself Excommunicated because it attacked the Mechanicus to reclaim a spear once held by Rogal Dorn, a glitching spear!"

Smyth frowned and said, "I never heard of that."

Ingvis explained, "It was subjected to an Edict of Obliteration, but nothing ever really disappears."

Smyth sighed as they turned a corner saying, "The question is, how are we to prevent them from starting a war?"

Ingvis remarked, "You could give the sword back."

Smyth didn't want to hear that so instead said, "Maybe Captain Kieva can convince them the threat we've uncovered is more important than some relic."

Ingvis was silent for a long moment as they entered their division's barracks area and they marched past waiting Intercessor guards before he said, "You put a lot of faith in the Captain's diplomatic abilities."

Smyth swallowed at the subtle criticism of their superior but said, "I was running out of ideas, honestly I was only trying to buy us a little time."

Ingvis snorted, "Then let us trust that the Captain doesn't go waving stolen relics in their face."

Smyth gripped the hilt of his new blade defensively and he was about to reply but then they saw the Captain's personal quarters ahead. Yet he was surprised to spy a squad of Intercessors standing outside the door. It was Yones' squad, minus their Sergeant, all stood rigidly to attention. Smyth was confused as to why they were here but wasn't about to admit that before their guests and strode up to the squad, who saluted with the sign of the cog at his approach. Smyth responded in kind then said, "Brothers, is there something the matter?"

Brother Arkias replied crisply, "Sergeant Yones is waiting within for the Captain to return."

Smyth frowned at that and said, "The Captain isn't back yet?"

Arkias answered, "Haven't seen him, Lieutenant."

Smyth leaned over to Ingvis and whispered, "That's bad, the Captain should have returned before us."

Ingvis scowled as he said, "I thought he was exaggerating when he said the Custodes would take it badly, but perhaps he was underestimating them."

Smyth shook his head and argued, "Surely not, he's probably just been held up in interviews with the Custodians."

Ingvis glanced over his shoulder at their guests and said, "Best not keep them waiting here, where everyone can see them."

Smyth saw out of the corner of his eye that they were indeed drawing attention from passing Primaris. They were all from his own division but they had no inkling of the conspiracy at large and so he decided the Reiver was right. The Lieutenant declared, "We will wait for the Captain within."

Yet Arkias interjected, "About that, the Sergeant isn't alone. He's brought company."

Smyth was about to ask more but then the door slid back and he saw Sergeant Yones standing there with a curious expression and over his shoulder the unexpected sight of Fiett, their man in Megaro's inner circle. Smyth knew he wouldn't have come unless something significant had occurred and hastily waved their guests within, closing the door behind him.

Yones stepped aside to let them in and said, "Lieutenant, are we glad to see you, I have news."

Yet suddenly the Librarian Arvael stepped forward and said in shock, "Fiett? What are you doing here?"

Fiett seemed equally surprised and uttered, "Arvael?"

Arvael looked like he couldn't believe his eyes and said, "You're meeting with Kieva too?"

Fiett nodded and replied, "I've been working with him for a while, ever since we met again."

Suddenly the Terminator Orath stomped forward and spat, "Who is this and why is he wearing Storm Herald colours?"

Arvael turned to face his bulky companion and said, "Brother Fiett was a fellow novice when I was in the scouts. He was a friend and a Brother to me, before he disappeared with Megaro. We met in the lower decks before the trial but I had no idea he was working with the Primaris."

Orath's eyes narrowed and he hissed, "You're one of Megaro's lot; the band of deserters who fled with him."

Fiett looked down and said, "I am ashamed to say it is true, half a dozen of us left with Megaro and it was the worst mistake we ever made. It has been nothing but shame, mistrust and insults ever since. We all regret leaving and none of us trusts Megaro anymore."

Orath's Thunder Hammer rose threateningly and he growled, "You think I will take the word of a True Believer?"

Fiett shook his head and said, "We were but raw rookies and we didn't really understand anything about the civil war. Ninth Company missed the fighting and all we heard were conflicting reports from light years away. Megaro was our Chaplain, he filled our heads with foolish notions and we weren't smart enough to doubt him. A Chaplain told us to act and we obeyed without question."

Smyth stepped in then to say, "I vouch for him, Fiett here has been our inside man. He's agreed to tell us what Megaro is up to."

Fiett looked at his long-lost kin and held out his right hand as he implored, "I can't change what happened, but I can change the future. I would stand beside you once more, if you will have me."

Orath sneered at that but Arvael stepped forward and gripped Fiett's arm wrist to wrist as his other hand slapped him on the pauldron and he declared, "I would be glad of it my old friend. To stand shoulder to shoulder with a Brother is no small thing in this life."

Fiett smiled slightly but then Imix spoke up from the corner of the room, "Touching, but recall I hearing something about important news."

Smyth had almost forgotten that and said, "Yes, what is so important that you bring him here?"

Yones answered by saying, "That's what I wanted to tell the Captain, Megaro, he's disappeared again."

"What?!" Smyth exclaimed in shock, "How did he get out?"

Fiett stated, "We don't know, but he's definitely gone."

Orath scowled as he snarled, "What's this? You incompetent fools lost a prisoner?!"

Smyth overlooked the insult and said, "We have reports that Megaro has been periodically disappearing, it's inconceivable but he must have had help. Where he goes and why is unknown, but we assume he's meeting with his co-conspirators somewhere on board."

Fiett added, "We suspect Jaric Phoros, the master of the Fire Lords has taken a keen interest in Megaro."

"Jaric Phoros?!" Imix started, "He is involved?"

Smyth hastily explained, "We have no proof, without solid evidence we can't definitively tie him to any of this."

Yet Imix's eyes took on a dangerous glint and Smyth was reminded that the Fire Lords and the Smoke Jaguars had an ancient feud between them. It was then that Ingvis declared, "This is too good an opportunity to miss, we have a chance to catch Megaro in the act, if we can find him."

Smyth saw the possibility unfold and exclaimed excitedly, "We must inform Captain Kieva at once!"

Yet Yones disappointed him by saying, "We've been trying to reach him on the vox but have no got response. The Custodes must have taken him somewhere really secure. He could be away for hours."

"We can't wait that long," Fiett insisted, "Megaro never goes missing for more than two or three hours at a time. If we wait for Kieva then we miss our chance to expose him.

Ingvis concurred, "He's right, we have to act immediately."

Smyth heard their arguments and in his hearts agreed with them but his rational mind could see the glaring problem with their proposal. Hesitantly he pointed out, "This is all moot, we don't know where Megaro went or how to begin tracking him."

Yet Imix spoke up, "If you take me to his last place of dwelling then I can track his spoor."

Smyth blinked in surprise and said, "Really?"

Imix grinned slightly and said, "We Smoke Jaguars are keen hunters and I have tricks of my own most know not."

Smyth didn't doubt it, Imix was a Librarian, they had abilities beyond mundane comprehension. Yet to go haring off into the unknown without back-up sat ill with him. He had been trained in the meticulous ways of war upon Mars and he would not advance into the unknown without making proper preparations. He drew in a breath and said, "You're right, we have to forge the ingot while it's molten, but I won't go in alone; Yones and his squad will come with me and Imix to track Megaro. Ingvis, I want you to go find Captain Kieva and alert him as to what's going on."

Ingvis started in surprise and said, "Have you slipped a gear? I'm not letting you go into a fight without me!"

Yet Smyth faced him squarely and said, "Yes you are. There's no telling what we will find, we need the Custodian Guard to back us up. Kieva is already with them, find him and together you will convince the Custodes to follow in our wake. We will go in ahead of you and track Megaro's location, so you can bring in the heavy hitters to catch him in the act. Then together we will flush this conspiracy out into the light of day."

Ingvis looked like he wanted to argue but Smyth's will was unbending and the Sergeant relented saying, "Aye sir, but don't go getting yourself killed while I'm not there to watch your back."

Smyth was glad to hear it but then Orath suddenly snarled, "Hold on, you're not taking the Sword of Thiel anywhere without me. Where you go, I go."

"I'm coming too," Fiett concurred.

"And me!" Arvael added.

Smyth blinked in surprise and refuted them, "We have to move quickly and quietly, you will slow us down."

Yet Arvael argued, "We can keep up and need I remind you that you came to us for help."

Smyth raised his hands and said, "We thought you could help us investigate this affair, but this isn't your fight."

Yet Fiett argued, "Megaro is an enemy of all Storm Heralds and we will face him, with or without you."

Smyth saw they meant it and lowered his hands sighing, "Very well, I suppose more guns will be useful, but remember this is a reconnaissance mission and I am in command. So no charging into a fight without my express order."

"As you will," Arvael conceded.

Smyth was glad to hear that but as the warriors gathered themselves together he saw the tensions between them and he wondered if perhaps they might prove more dangerous to each other than any enemy could be.


	35. Chapter 35

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 35**

The hunters moved through the dank bilges of the Macragge's Honour, they ducked under dripping pipes and slithered over ice-encrusted conduits of hyper-coolant. They circled around derelict capacitors the size of buildings and pistons as thick as Land Raiders, that screeched as they shunted back and forth. At the fore Imix flitted from shadow to shadow, barely more than a smudge against the darkness. Arvael and Fiett followed him, both stretching their senses, mundane and ethereal to the maximum. Further back the Intercessors of Sergeant Yones' squad followed in their wake, with Lieutenant Smyth by their side. At the very rear Orath clomped along with his bulldog helm on, disdaining any attempt at concealment. It was noticeable that Orath was keeping near to Smyth at all times, not letting the Sword of Thiel out of his sight.

Arvael was careful about where he put his feet, avoiding the worst of the detritus that littered the floor. Piles of refuse decomposed in the corners along with the occasional skeleton. He was surprised that so lauded a vessel as this concealed such dilapidated areas, the name Macragge's Honour conjured images of glory and splendour, not squalor. Arvael carefully stepped over a mouldy rib cage, and heard vermin hiss at his passage as he remarked, "This is not what I expected. The higher decks may be magnificent, but I didn't think the bilges would be like this."

Besides him Fiett muttered, "We are in the working decks now, no different from any other Imperial vessel and all starships have ghettos and slums in hidden their bowels. Generations of filthy scavengers live out their lives in the forgotten corners, not once setting foot on a planet, most of them will never see a Space Marine either."

Arvael suddenly sensed motion off to their left and jerked his helm around, feeling the tug of the connections to his psychic hood pulling. He was expecting a foe to launch itself out of the darkness but all he saw was a colony of rats, fleeing from the towering giants passing by. Arvael untensed as the noise faded and glanced to where Imix was lurking. The Shade-Seer was wrapping the shadows around himself, becoming unnoticeable to most. It was an impressive feat but Arvael knew this was only a flicker of his power, were he to wish it Imix could erase his presence from the mind of any observer and walk unseen by all.

The Shade-Seer had claimed to have caught the scent of Megaro and swiftly led them into the depths of the ship, following signs only he could see. Arvael didn't doubt his skill, Imix had spent a lifetime tracking foes and his psychic probes extended far and wide. Arvael watched as the Smoke Jaguar silently scaled a metal scaffold, slightly higher than their heads before moving across a wide mesh-grid, suspended off the floor.

Arvael quickly followed him to the top and then turned to proffer his hand to Fiett. The erstwhile Storm Herald shook his helm and said, "I don't need help."

Arvael however waved his palm and said, "Don't be a prig, come on."

Fiett relented and stowed his weapons before taking the hand, Arvael gripping his wrist as he ascended. At the top the pair looked about and realised they were standing under an immense oxygen recycling system the size of a hab-building. Imix was already inspecting a tangle of pipes and mould-encrusted valves that descended from it, Arvael didn't interrupt but instead whispered, "Do you think we are close?"

Fiett drew a gladius and bolt pistol as he answered, "Megaro never disappears for more than a few hours, considering that he has to get back from wherever he goes it can't be much further."

Arvael nodded and then enquired, "Do you ever think of returning to Lujan II?"

Fiett paused for a moment before saying, "I… I haven't really given it any consideration. I have been living from day to day for so long. Returning home… it sounds strange to hear another say that. I'm not sure I can, how could I return to the ranks after being away so long?"

Arvael sighed, "I can't deny there would be harsh trials and penances, but others have done the same. Some have been away far longer than you and still proven true."

The pair were forced to step aside as the Primaris climbed the scaffolding, but Orath presented a problem. His plate was far too cumbersome and heavy to climb up. Everybody looked down at him and Lieutenant Smyth pondered, "Maybe we could wrap him in chains and pull him up."

"Frak that," Orath growled as he drew back his Thunder Hammer and swung wide. Arvael staggered as the Terminator smashed a dozen supports of the scaffolding away with a booming clap and then the mesh floor dropped a dozen feet. The Transhumans all swayed as the mesh floor fell out from under them and slammed one end down, turning it into a steep ramp. Arvael swiftly regained his balance as the floor settled at its new angle and Orath stomped up the slope saying, "What are you lot standing around for?"

They fell in behind him but Smyth muttered, "So much for stealth…"

Arvael sighed and made his way over to where Shade-Seer Imix was standing, peering down a dark passageway framed by a cluster of horizontal pipes that ran away from the oxygen exchanger. It was barely wide enough for a Space Marine to pass along but seemed otherwise unremarkable, yet Imix was stood stock still, his hands clasping his staff before him. Arvael crept up to him and whispered, "What is wrong?"

Imix's helm lenses were staring straight down the gap between the pipes as he replied, "Space and time are tangled, like a knot."

Cautiously Arvael extended his psychic senses and instantly he perceived what Imix meant. The passage shimmered like he was staring at the horizon through a heat haze, dancing back and forth in his vision. Reality blinked and for an instant he could have sworn he beheld two slightly different images laid out before him.

Fiett stepped forward saying, "Let me go first."

Yet he was stopped by Arvael's palm laid upon his chest as he said, "No, this is not for you. You cannot see the way."

Fiett stepped back as Arvael held both hands out, palms forward and let his mind expand. To a telekine the forces that bound the universe together were obvious, matter and energy, gravity and time all were connected in a complex weft, yet here there was a second weave laid over the first, like a rug thrown over a stain in a carpet. Arvael reached for the points where the two weaves interlaced and then he found a single loose thread and pulled. Reality shimmered and then the passage changed before their eyes, the clean metal lines becoming filthy and encrusted with mouldy protrusions that dripped black fluids and fungal growths the size of beehives that swayed like leaves.

Arvael released his power and everybody stared in stunned disbelief as he proclaimed, "A spatial bi-location!"

Orath spat in bewilderment, "What?!"

Imix growled, "Potent sorcery, lurking in the very heart of the Crusade."

"What does that mean?" Orath asked sounding confused.

Imix elaborated, "It is a fold in space, a separate dimension laid adjacent to our own. Not in the Warp but not in realspace, like the world you see when you look in a mirror."

"What does that mean?" Orath repeated starting to sound irritated.

"Someone has created a pocket dimension," Arvael informed him, "A mirror world hiding in plain sight."

"But what does it mean?" Orath spat short temperedly.

"It's camouflage," Fiett explained, "A hidden bunker for Chaos."

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?" Orath growled, "We should get in there and kill anything we find."

Arvael went to step forward but Smyth cried, "Wait!" The Lieutenant hastily pulled a gladius from his belt then etched a series of marks into the nearest pipe. He stepped back and declared, "The Custodes will know what that means, they can follow us in."

With their route marked the Space Marines advanced and Arvael felt a gossamer sensation pass through him, like he was walking through cobwebs. Instantly the rancid taint of Chaos washed over him, the filthy stench of Warp energies crawling up his nose like spoiled milk. He glanced back the way they came and saw reality sealing behind them, showing him their previous location but he knew without psychic intervention anyone trying to follow them would see nothing.

Warily they paced forward but as they did so Smyth asked, "If we hadn't had Psykers with us, what would have happened?"

Arvael replied, "You would have been unable to access the pocket dimension and instead would have continued along a mundane passageway. You would have passed by, blissfully unaware of the corruption all around you."

Indeed the passageway was drenched in corruption, the mouldy pipes and low ceiling covered in fungal growths and hanging tendrils that moved like leaves in a strong breeze and slapped upon their armour with wet squelches. The sections they had been in before had been decrepit but of a drab and disappointing nature, by contrast this was active decay, the metalwork subsumed by raw corruption. The air was thick and cloying and every footstep sent up clouds of spores, making them double check their helm's filters. Arvael tried to send his sight further ahead but was driven back by the fetid Warp energies, the miasma of decay so overwhelming that he was forced to seek the welcome shelter of his bones.

Imix sensed Arvael's distress and muttered, "Sorcery this powerful is beyond mere mortals. The power of Chaos waxes strong."

"How could this possibly go unnoticed?" Smyth asked in a horrified tone.

"We are on the other side of the mirror," Arvael uttered, "No matter what happens here, nothing would be detectable outside the borders of this place."

Suddenly there was a glimpse of weak light ahead and the Space Marines found themselves emerging into a larger space, fifty metres wide and with a roof so high even they could not make out the top. It was some form of abandoned sump, a basin for collecting water condensation but now the walls were engulfed by mottled fungal growths. Yet that was nothing compared to what was embedded within that fungus: bodies, dried up and desiccated in an all-too-familiar way, stuck to the walls like insects pinned to a board. Each of them was clad in crewmen's overalls or scavenger's rags or low-ranking uniforms, but all of them were pinned into place, limbs held tight by the clinging fungus. Ring after ring of them were stuck to the walls, rising ever higher with their heads hanging loosely on lifeless necks.

All the Space Marines grasped their weapons tighter and formed a defensive circle as Smyth drew the Sword of Thiel barked, "Undead?! How can this be? How can the curse have reached the Macragge's Honour?!"

Imix was grasping his staff tightly and pronounced, "This is the wellspring of the corruption, it was born here."

"How many of them are there?" Yones gasped as his head snapped back and forth.

Arvael passed his eyes over the corpses festooning the walls and spat, "Hundreds, possibly thousands. And this may not be the only site, who knows how many more lie deeper within."

Orath had his Shield and Thunder Hammer held high but he queried, "Why aren't they attacking?"

Arvael realised he was right and stepped nearer, examining a corpse. There was no response so he declared, "They are dormant. Like when we first arrived on Inerus, they won't attack until commanded to do so."

Everybody breathed a little easier but they kept their weapons close as Yones declared, "We have to head back and report this at once."

Yet Smyth disagreed, "No, we have to press on and find the heart of this place."

"Are you jesting?" Yones exclaimed, "We have to get a warning out!"

Smyth however argued, "The Custodian Guard are already alerted and on their way. Our mission is to scout this area for them and uncover the scope of this threat."

Fiett spoke up then to say, "He's right, we can't head back now, not if these creatures might awaken in our absence. We must find the source of this corruption before its too late."

Yones seemed to disagree but Smyth uttered, "That was an order."

The arguments ceased immediately, the Space Marines having been conditioned to obey orders. Swiftly they formed up and headed towards the other side of the sump, where an open door awaited them. Yet every step of the way Arvael felt hostile eyes lingering on his back and a terrible foreboding crept over him as he wondered what horrors may be waiting for them in the dark.


	36. Chapter 36

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 36**

The Undead were everywhere, covering every wall they passed by. The corpses hung limply in their shackles of mould, like horrifying fruit hanging from a tree. They lined the passages and corridors; they hung from broken mechanisms and piled high upon empty munition trains. At one point a vast chasm fell away into pitch blackness, crossed only by a narrow bridge and corpses dangled from its beams, swaying slightly in a faint breeze.

Arvael had tried to count the bodies but he had given up after he had passed several thousand. The Undead were everywhere and he was convinced there was yet more to this place they had not seen. The lingering auras of despair and horror weighed heavily upon his soul and he was forced to erect potent mental walls against the gales of raw anguish they conjured. Mundane as they were the other Space Marines subconsciously grouped closer together, weapons facing out to form a ring of defence, but so far they had been unchallenged. The Undead did not react to their presence and of their makers there was no sign.

As they headed deeper Orath muttered, "How Frakking big is this place?"

Imix was at the fore, scouting their path and he replied, "There is no way to tell, it may only be a few compartments or it may equal the size of the whole ship."

Smyth had the Sword of Thiel in his hands, warily checking their rear but he said, "The Macragge's Honour is festooned with wards, how can no one have noticed this place?"

Arvael answered, "The mirror world is isolated, any Warp energies released here would not be detectable from the other side. We were fortunate to find a location it intersected with the Materium or we would never have been able to gain access."

Fiett inquired, "You have seen such things before?"

Yet Arvael replied, "Not I, but the Imperium has. The Space Wolves encountered such a phenomenon on the world of Charys, when they battled the accursed Thousand Sons. The Sorcerers there duplicated an entire planet; one ship is no great feat in comparison."

They paused as they found a T-junction and the Intercessors pointed their bolt rifles down each route, yet all they saw were more Undead. Imix sniffed the air then turned right and led them onwards. As they walked Sergeant Yones asked, "How can there be so many bodies? Where did they all come from?"

Arvael pointed out, "These are low-ranking crewmen or scavengers, nobody who would be missed."

"But so many people," Yones muttered, "That must have drawn comment,"

However Smyth explained, "This is an Imperial warship, how many hundreds of people die every day in the bowels of even an average vessel? Accidents and misfortunes, old age, starvation, faulty life support systems, gang wars between scavengers and that's before one considers losses to enemy action. The Macragge's Honour has seen battle recently and nobody would comment upon another thousand missing personnel after a particularly vicious engagement."

Orath hefted his Thunder Hammer and asked, "What do we think all these Undead are meant to do?"

Arvael replied grimly, "This many Undead could only be intended for a huge offensive. Someone is planning to attack the Macragge's Honour from the inside."

Smyth sounded alarmed as he speculated, "They would materialize inside our defences, overrunning us before we could realise what is happening. If they did this mid-battle the results would be catastrophic, they could obliterate the High Command of the Crusade at its most vulnerable moment."

Suddenly Imix stiffened and held up a fist. Everybody froze as he ghosted forward, checking around a blind corner, then the Shade-Seer waved for them to advance. Arvael followed him around the bend and was surprised to see an ornate arch, surprisingly free of the fungal growths. It had once been marked with symbols of the Mechanicus but those had been hacked out and replaced with baleful icons that hurt the eye to look upon. Even with all his Librarius training Arvael averted his eyes, avoiding the corrupting influence as he followed Imix through the arch.

They found themselves emerging into a huge chamber, shaped like a seven-sided Heptagon. It was ringed with pillars that supported a high roof and various plinths and rotten pews, surrounding an elevated platform. Arvael instantly recognised a Mechanicus Forge-Fane, once a place for the Tech-Priests of Mars to practice their devotions to the Machine God but one that was defiled in every way possible.

The walls were coated in the same fungus as the rest of this mirror dimension, growing leafy fronds that waved and beckoned as if underwater. The floor was etched in mathematical formulas but these had been marred by clumps of mulch, changing the equations in ways that would drive any man insane were they to try to comprehend them. Black-iron lanterns hung from sconces, crackling with dirty flames that produced choking smokes. The pews were buried under columns of mould, growing upwards like stalagmites while the roof was overgrown with creeping vines. The air was thick with swollen black insects and darting flies, a veritable eco-system feeding upon the defilement of this place.

Around the platform a number of small plinths were topped with skulls, each one mutated in ways that were offensive to the purity of the human form. Some had horns arising from their foreheads or even three eyes instead of two or distended jawbones that almost made them resemble Ork skulls. All of them were facing away from the centre of the platform, where an altar squatted, a slab of stone about shoulder high to a human. It was encrusted with blood, thick black filth that ran down its sides to puddle on the floor.

Once glance made Arvael gag, the psychic aura of the altar hitting him like a bucket of excrement to the face. A foul brume gusted off the altar, filling the fane with torpid energy, a sense of lethargy and stagnation that was almost overwhelming. The entire place was drenched in the power of decay, making him want to lay down and never get up again. Everything about this place was designed to crush mortal spirits, to break the will and leave only apathetic shells. It took all Arvael's mental defences to keep the languorous aura at bay and he was shocked that the others could not sense it.

The other Space Marines were advancing into the fane, weapons held ready as Imix declared, "We have found the epicentre, the font of the corruption and it is far worse than we ever imagined."

Smyth looked about and said, "Yones, take your squad and secure the entrances, this place won't be left unguarded for long."

Arvael followed the rest deeper within and as he did so Orath remarked, "More bodies." Arvael glanced at the pews and realised what he had taken for columns of mould were in fact people, fixed securely to their seats by cocooning tendrils of fungus. Their faces were pale and their eyes were closed, as if sleeping, but he could see their chests moving and he exclaimed, "These ones are still alive!"

However Imix refuted that, "No, this is not life."

Smyth peered closer and said, "He's right, they're infected, just like the curse on Inerus. These people are doomed to become undead. This must be where they are converted, before being stuck to the walls outside."

"This is an abomination," Orath growled, "We should destroy it."

Imix led them to the platform as he said, "Truth, but first we must understand how to achieve such an end."

Arvael, Smyth, Fiett and Orath joined Imix at the very centre of the fane and looked upon the altar. Arvael wanted to wretch as the altar disgorged unclean energies and he was forced to look away. Even Imix seemed reluctant to touch it, keeping his hands well clear of the blood stains but he observed, "Many lives were stolen here, many sacrifices were made."

"But who did this?" Fiett "Who would dare?"

It was then that Arvael noticed something and he exclaimed, "Seven!"

Everybody looked around and Smyth said, "What?"

Arvael gestured around as he uttered, "Look, seven skulls and seven columns, seven torches and a seven-sided room. It's a repeating pattern and I'll bet there are more connections if we look for them."

Imix nodded and said, "Seven is the unholy number of the Lord of Entropy and Decay, a siren call in the Warp. The Daemons of Chaos heard the summons and were drawn here by the scent of sacrificed blood."

"So?" asked Smyth.

"It may be significant," Arvael answered, "The key to disabling this place's power may be found amongst such icons. Quickly, everybody look for more connections."

Everybody spread out, examining the raw filth all around them. Arvael moved to inspect the skulls on the plinths and he felt the essence of corruption flowing through them. The altar was the source of the foetid energies but the skulls channelled and shaped that power, like the focusing rings on a lasgun. They made his skin crawl but he forced himself to examine the patterns of energy and was shocked to realise that they matched the weave of the mirror plane itself. Arvael suddenly understood that whatever spells had been crafted here were being sustained by these skulls, they were the lynchpins of the pocket dimension which meant they could be the key to breaking it open.

Arvael was about to summon Imix but right then Orath called aloud, "By the Throne! Come look at this!"

Everybody started in surprise and hastened over to the Terminator, who had moved beyond the skulls to examine one of the seven great pillars. Arvael saw it was enveloped in funguses, making it look like a rotten tree trunk, but what was more shocking was that there was a body implanted into the waving fronds, a transhuman body that could only belong to a Space Marine. The unfortunate wretch was suspended off the floor, with his arms secured out in a cruciform shape. His armour was engulfed in slimy in tendrils but under that could be seen flashes of black plate, with grey pauldrons marked by a spiral in a starburst. His head was shaved bald and hung loosely, his chin buried in his gorget with only the slightest twitches to indicate that he yet breathed while his face was marked with black veins but the skin around them was a furious red, as if his gene-seed sought to drive the infection out.

Everybody gasped at the sight and Smyth exclaimed, "Megaro! It's Megaro!"

Orath stared upwards and hissed, "We found the Heretic but what's he doing up there?"

"Could…" Smyth wondered, "Could his co-conspirators have turned on him?"

Yet Imix declared, "No, corruption surrounds him but it is not within him. Look, it tries to claim his flesh but he fights it off, he still resists the poison of Chaos. We were wrong, all of us were wrong. Megaro is not the author of this travesty; he is a victim of it!"

Arvael was shocked to hear that and turned about as he said, "But if Megaro wasn't behind all this then who is?"

As he turned he saw something truly shocking, Fiett had not joined them but had stayed on the platform, standing by the skulls. His face was filled with glee and his eyes contained a mad fervour as he held his open palm over a skull and declared, "I thought you were never going to ask." With that his hand fell and the moment he made contact the eyes of all the skulls blazed with a fierce jade light and their jaws yawned open as they emitted a shriek so loud it became a blastwave of force.

Arvael felt the shockwave slam into him like a freight train, picking him up and throwing him away. His bones rattled from the impact and he saw all the others scattered like leaves in the wind. The force slammed them into the empty pillars and pinned them there. Arvael felt slimy tendrils swarming over him, binding his limbs and securing him to the stone as Megaro had been. The tendrils oozed torpid energies, washing over Arvael and dragging at his mind like lead weights. He tried to fight it but the power crushed his mental defences and forced unconsciousness upon him.

The world went dark as his eyes closed and the last thing he saw was Fiett, raising his arms to the ceiling as he cried triumphantly, "The Grandfather is pleased to invite you into his house! Be welcome, one and all into the embrace of Nurgle!"


	37. Chapter 37

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 37**

"Arvael, wake up damn you," the words rang in his ears, stirring him out of a deep slumber. It was difficult to discern any meaning, their significance distorted by the murky clouds that filled his spirit. Again the words came, forcing a ripple of discomfort within him and the feeling arose that he should be doing something. The black clouds resisted his awakening, trying to smother him in a choking lethargy but a hint of defiance sparked within him. His will hardened to a diamond point then with a surge of superhuman effort Arvael opened his eyes.

The Librarian gasped as he awoke, pulling his head up from the nape of his neck where it had been hanging. It took a few seconds for his autosenses to focus and his helm's vision blurred before finally settling down. Arvael found himself suspended off the floor, pinned to one of the seven great pillars. He was spread-eagled, limbs lashed down with thick tendrils of slimy fungal matter. He instinctively tried to break his arms free but he was completely enveloped, trapped in unbreakable shackles. Reflexively Arvael tried to summon forth his Psychic power but found it was beyond his grasp. The tendrils were forcing a debilitating lethargy into his mind, trying to drag him back down into unconsciousness. He required a constant effort merely to stay awake and he could not spare the attention to reach for the door in his soul, from whence his power flowed.

Unable to free himself Arvael looked about, his head still having some freedom of movement. He found his compatriots similarly imprisoned, each of them bound to a separate pillar. To his right Lieutenant Smyth was held securely in a cocoon of tendrils, the Sword of Thiel hanging a mere inch from his straining fingertips. That was a nasty touch; Smyth could see the blade but could not reach it, a cruel taunt regarding his helplessness. Beyond him Sergeant Orath was engulfed in tendrils, his heavy plate needing twice as many restraints as the others.

Beyond him Arvael could just make out the form of Yones, while to his left Megaro was hanging from a pillar of his own, still trapped as when they had arrived. Further left Shade-Seer Imix was hanging loosely in a web of tendrils, his body still and unmoving. Even Psychically powerless Arvael could sense the energies forcing Imix to remain asleep, so much that it was guzzling immense amounts of power from everybody else's prisons, which was why they were awake and he was not.

Arvael's motion drew attention and he heard Smyth's voice exclaim, "Finally! He's awake!"

Arvael looked over and groaned, "What happened?"

From further away Orath spat, "That wretched whoreson Fiett betrayed us!"

There was a deep and threatening growl as a resentful voice uttered, "Duplicitous filth!"

Arvael turned his head and saw Megaro was also awake, the renegade Chaplain stirring in his own bonds. The tendrils holding him down were taught with tension and Arvael realised he was fighting them, constantly pressing forward in a relentless effort to break free. It was a wasted effort, for the cocoon held him securely but Megaro cared not, his spirit obstinate and unyielding. Arvael knew that he would fight to his last breath and die before surrendering.

Arvael addressed the Chaplain saying, "We thought you were behind this treachery."

"Then you are a damned fool," Megaro snarled, "Fiett came to my cell and overpowered me with unholy strength, I woke up here, bound and imprisoned. He will pay for his treason; I will rip out his hearts and make him watch as they stop beating."

But suddenly another voice interjected, "Do any of you comprehend that I can hear you talking?"

Arvael's head snapped up and his gaze found Fiett standing near to the altar with his helm off and a gore-soaked knife in his hand. His face was filled with a mocking glee and his eyes shone with a terrible fervour. Yet more shocking was that his arms were coated in blood, thick transhuman blood staining him to the elbows. Arvael gaped dumbly for a second then his eyes spotted a corpse on the altar and three more on the floor around it, Primaris Marines, all dead and lifeless.

"Arkias, Maral, Nabalai, Sonatas, he murdered them all," Yones hissed from his own pillar.

Orath growled in turn, "I'm going to kill you for that."

Fiett turned to face them and tutted, "So rude, after all my hard work bringing you here."

In response Megaro jerked in his bondage and roared, "You faithless cur! I name you Traitor and condemn you in the name of the Divine Emperor!"

Fiett glanced at him and spat, "Save it, year after year I've been silently putting up with your spiteful vitriol, but no more, it's finally my turn to be heard."

Arvael forced down a glut of angry bile and hissed, "How could you do this?"

Fiett smiled wickedly and confessed, "I'm sorry but I lied to you, when I told you I regretted leaving with Megaro. Truthfully, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I finally saw a universe beyond the restrictions and boundaries the Chapter set upon us. I was finally free, to explore my potential, to be whoever I wanted to be."

Furiously Megaro roared, "I saved you from the heresy engulfing our Chapter and you threw it back in my face!"

Fiett's smile evaporated and he snarled, "You?! You didn't save us, I saved us! When we were lost in the warp, when the crew were taken by the Daemons and the rot, I was the one who made a bargain to save us. Did you think it was your faith? That your prayers led us back to realspace? No, it was me! The Daemons of Nurgle spoke to me, offering power, salvation and immortality. I accepted the bargain, I let the Grandfather plant a germ of his power in my flesh and he delivered us to where he needed us to be."

"I'll kill you!" Megaro bellowed.

"Shut up," Fiett snapped, "You have no idea how much we despise you, how many times we've wanted to see you dead. No… no death is too quick for you, we want you to suffer."

Arvael glared at him, fury building in his hearts but he icily hissed, "Why do you keep referring to yourself in the plural?"

Fiett grinned once more and said, "Well… I couldn't get around the Crusade's security on my own, all those intricate wards and the Psykers probing constantly for taint, so I recruited a partner."

Suddenly there was the clumping of armoured boots and out of the corner of his eye Arvael saw another Ceramite-clad body entering the fane. Shocked gasps arose from all when they beheld the thick Gravis armour, marked with the emblems of the Unnumbered Sons. The wearer's face was exposed, displaying a superior smile over the familiar features of Captain Kieva.

Smyth gasped as he saw his Captain enter and he uttered, "Kieva? But… but.. no, it's not possible!"

Kieva jauntily strolled up to them and Arvael saw he had something in his grip but the Primaris Marine looked up and said, "Hello Smyth, in trouble again?"

Smyth sounded dumbfounded as he spluttered, "How… what… how?"

Kieva grinned as he replied, "Lost for words?"

Smyth uttered in shock, "But… but no Primaris Marine has ever fallen to Chaos!"

Kieva snorted at that and said, "You bought that line? Propaganda, Smyth, pure propaganda. Of course some Primaris have fallen, but it has all been covered up. The old Chapters would never accept Primaris Marines into their ranks were they to learn we are no purer in spirit than they."

Smyth still sounded aghast as he breathed, "Why?"

"Why not?" Kieva retorted, "All I have ever wanted is recognition, to make my mark on the galaxy but the Senior Commanders never showed me a modicum of respect, they never gave me a chance to shine. Deep down I always knew I was going to be forsaken, sent to reinforce some insignificant Chapter as the Crusade moved on. Then Fiett arrived and showed me how pathetically small my dreams were."

"No," Smyth whispered in denial, "This is a trick…"

"There's that optimism again," Kieva sneered, "How many times did I tell you hope was useless? Hope held me back, the hope of earning my superior's respect, but once I tasted despair so many other possibilities opened up. I always wanted to make a mark on the galaxy but Fiett showed me how to carve a wound that will never be forgotten, a scar that will never fade. Nobody ever respected me, but soon all will fear me!"

Arvael saw Smyth was struggling to believe his own eyes but interrupted to say accusingly, "You were behind the destruction of Inerus."

Kieva chuckled triumphantly and replied, "Inerus was a Beta test, to work out the Knicks in the curse. We still can't get it to work on Space Marines but mortals are helpless to resist its power."

Suddenly Yones gasped, "You sabotaged the Omnissiah's Bounty! Ingvis was right, that was no accident!"

Kieva smirked as he said, "Poor Ingvis, always sticking his nose in where it wasn't welcome."

With that he raised the object in his hand and revealed the decapitated head of Sergeant Ingvis. The dead eyes stared lifelessly and the jaw hung low as Kieva gloated, "Ingvis saw more than he was supposed to and I had to kill the fool."

"Ingvis!" Smyth roared as he wrestled to break out of his confinement, "You bastard! When the Custodian Guards get here they will rip you to shreds!"

Both Traitors chuckled at that and Kieva jeered, "You idiots, why would the Custodes come when nobody has alerted them?"

"What do you…" Yones began to say then suddenly cried in shocked realisation, "RUSTY COG! You never even spoke to them, did you?!"

Kieva carelessly chucked Ingvis' lifeless head aside and said, "Nobody knows you're here, nobody has even noticed you're gone. And even if they do, they will never detect Nurgle's mirror world."

Arvael's hearts were burning in outrage but he forced himself to say, "What I don't understand is why you needed to lure Captain Toran into a trap."

But Fiett laughed aloud, "Toran? We don't want Toran! He's not important or special, he's a complete nobody. The Storm Heralds are nothing to us save a means to an end. Our real objective has always been your friend Imix."

"Imix?!" Arvael exclaimed as he glanced at the still unconscious Shade-Seer.

"Yes," Kieva replied smoothly, "Imix is a most potent psyker, a walking gateway to the warp. With his power fuelling our rituals we could spread the curse to every mortal on the ship and accelerate the conversion from days to minutes. We tried to ensnare and trap Imix so many times but he's a wily one, always one step ahead of us. It was utterly frustrating, especially since we had to bury Nurgle's gifts so deeply, lest we fall foul of the layers of wards that riddle this ship."

Fiett added, "Thankfully the Grandfather's servants showed us a better way, for there was a soul who could draw Imix out of hiding. You, Arvael, the Daemons of the Warp told us that Imix would take an interest in you."

Angrily Arvael spat, "You used me to lure Imix into a trap!"

Then Smyth snarled, "You want to destroy the Macragge's Honour and tear out the heart of the Crusade!"

"Very insightful," Kieva commented, "The same insight that kept you digging into our affairs. I tried to warn you off, but you just wouldn't quit. Then when you mentioned bringing in the Custodes… well, that's when I knew you were going to get in the way of our plans."

Fiett elaborated, "The End Times are at hand, but this Crusade is actually managing to turn the tide. All the Ruinous Powers are determined to stop it. Nurgle has already dispatched his most powerful servants, but Mortarion is too conventional… too sentimental. He thought invading Ultramar was the way but there are subtler methods available to us. We will graft a Greater Daemon into Imix's soul and enhanced by his power the curse will overrun this ship, converting every mortal on board. Then our Undead army will kill the Imperium's last hope and the Indomitus Crusade shall fail."

Orath growled, "And where do we fit in?"

"You?" Kieva snorted, "You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, you will make useful sacrifices, your lifeblood will complete our rituals and draw forth a Great Unclean One."

Hatefully Megaro growled, "When I break free of this I am going to kill you, slowly and painfully."

Fiett shook his head and took his up knife as he said, "Now, now Megaro, there's no need to be rude. I shall let you watch as I tear out Yones' hearts, then Smyth's, then Orath's, then Arvael's. I trust you're paying attention, I want you to feel this."


	38. Chapter 38

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 38**

"Get him down," Fiett ordered as he picked up a wickedly serrated ritual dagger. Kieva grinned as he strode up to Sergeant Yones, reaching up to tug at the bindings. Yones struggled to break free of the tendrils but they enveloped him and pinned his arms at his side, rendering him helpless. The slimy mass came away from the pillar at Kieva's touch but remained wrapped around the Primaris Marine, preventing him from breaking loose. Kieva unceremonially dumped Yones on the floor and dragged him one-handed towards the altar, pulling him along like a sack of flour.

Meanwhile the others wrestled with their own confinement but could do nothing to intervene. Incensed by own his helplessness Smyth spat, "What's this Kieva? Taking orders from a lowly old Astartes?"

Orath sneered, "For one so determined to rise high, you really do love being someone's bitch!"

Kieva paused at their taunt but then glanced back and said, "You're trying to drive a wedge between us, not a bad idea but we both understand that all must serve Grandfather Nurgle sooner or later, in life or in death."

"Hurry up," Fiett snapped as he pushed the body of Arkais off the altar, letting it drop to the ground.

Arvael had watched all this from his own confinement and he knew that the pair of Traitors were about to sacrifice their prisoners one by one. They would perform vile rites of Daemonic summoning, using the rich lifeblood as an offering to their foul God. It was a crime against humanity, Brotherhood and reality itself, a deed only the foulest Traitors would countenance. The pair may yet retain their unsullied physical forms but there was no doubting that their hearts were as defiled as the fane they had corrupted.

Arvael looked upon Fiett and saw not his old friend but an enemy, as vile as any Traitor. He drew in a breath and said, "Fiett… Fiett!"

Fiett didn't bother to look over as he quipped, "Patience, I'll get to you soon enough."

Arvael however implored, "Fiett, I have to speak to you."

Fiett snorted, "Trying to save me? You always were as thick as battleships' hull."

Yet Arvael refuted, "No, you're too far gone for that, there's no salvation for you. But before you start, I have information you need to hear."

Kieva dragged Yones' thrashing form up to the altar and heaved him onto it as he growled, "Ignore them, he's playing for time."

But Arvael uttered, "You really need to hear this! You've made a critical error!"

Fiett paused and finally looked over; he tested the edge of his knife then said, "This should be rich. Very well, I will humour you. You have sixty seconds before I slit Yones' chest open, so tell me my mistake."

Arvael drew in a breath and said, "When you met me again you assumed I was the same person you knew as a Scout-Novice, but I am not, I've changed."

"That's the best you could come up with?" Fiett snorted, "You always were a blind fool."

"Not as blind as you," Arvael retorted, "You always did think you were better than everyone else, faster, smarter and more deadly."

Fiett cocked his head as he said, "This is pathetic, you have thirty seconds left, then Yones dies."

Arvael looked down at the Traitor and proclaimed, "You really should have come up with some more convincing lies. You spend years and years working with someone who is trying to destroy my Chapter and then suddenly turn up announcing you've had a change of heart. Did you really think I would accept you without question?"

Fiett's smile died as he stepped forward and hissed, "You're trying to make me doubt myself, but I know you Arvael, you always trusted too easily."

But Arvael shook his head and said, "You didn't see what I endured during my Librarius training, but believe me when I say trust is the first thing they burn out of you. I once had two Brothers I trusted absolutely, one tried to murder me and the other I killed before he could fail. Since that day I have fought alongside many others but I have trusted none of them without reservation. Especially you Fiett, I never trusted you, that's why I took precautions."

Fiett's eyes widened and he gasped, "What did you do?!"

But Arvael gazed upon his fallen Brother with contempt and barked the activation word of his Glyph magic.

Fiett froze as a wave of coldness swept through the fane, a look of dread passing over his face. Suddenly a harsh glow shot forth, as an unexpected light burst free of Fiett's armour. On his left pauldron, on his right wrist and over his chestplate, shining glyphs formed, brilliant points of purest light shooting from every place Arvael had touched him on their journey. The Librarian had been unable to access his powers once bound, but the glyphs had stored his energies like a battery and now they discharged it all at once.

Fiett was covered by Glyphs of abjuration, revelation and revocation, marking his plates like brands upon cattle. Fiett threw back his head and screamed as the glyphs blazed upon his tainted flesh, coring into the centre of him. He was soaked in the power of Chaos but the glyphs were anathema to the Ruinous Powers and all who served them. The power washed through Fiett and deep within found the smallest germ of potential, a mutational gift of Nurgle hidden in his flesh. The seed had lain dormant and undetectable, till now, but Arvael's glyphs found it and compelled it to bloom into pestilent life.

Fiett doubled over and grabbed at his guts as he roared, "No, not yet! It's too soon, it's too soon!" Yet nothing could halt the process once begun and black veins bored through Fiett, marring his Transhuman features. His eyes went blood-red and his cheeks shrivelled and sucked inwards, making him look like a skeleton with burning eyes. Clumps of hair began falling out of his head as his flesh began to slough off his skull. Raw bone became apparent under his scalp as his skin retreated to his ears and small horns erupted from his brow, curving back slightly to give him a devilish air. Impossibly his armour began to rust, growing pock-marked and scarred by decay. Brown tinges grew over his plates with astonishing speed and sprouted tiny fronds, that waved in a non-existent breeze. Then his belly began to swell, growing ever more corpulent. Ceramite strained to the limit and then spilt, cracking open across his abdomen to spill ropes of intestines freely around his waist. Finally a spark of light erupted from his palm and shot forth, growing longer and more real in seconds until it manifested as a long staff, topped with a curved twist from which hung a brass bell. Fiett the Marine was gone and in his place stood Fiett, Sorcerer of Nurgle.

Fiett was not the only one changed for the awakening of his potential reached out to affect all he had shared it with. Kieva staggered backwards, clawing at his own armour as the change came over him. He shrieked, "No, you promised me glory! You promised me!" Yet his flesh was already bubbling and slagging off his bones. Folds of skin rolled off his face, sagging around his neck as two tusks erupted from his upper gums, growing down past his chin. His amour became furry as clumps of mould spread all over it, coating him head to toe in filth. His boltstorm gauntlet turned black and skeletal claws erupted from his fingertips, leaving him with one huge claw for a hand, with his other he tried to draw his power sword but his fingers were elongating and fusing together. Longer and longer his right hand grew, until it burst from his gauntlet as a writhing tentacle that jerked and twisted so sinuously that the sword dropped to the ground. Kieva had become a loathsome Champion of Nurgle, as foul as he was deadly.

While this had been occurring Arvael felt the disruption to the patterns of energy in the fane. The abrupt changes wracking the Traitors resonated far and wide and sent ripples through the fungal growths like a wave through the sea. Fronds waved in the air and mulch heaved, but much more importantly the tendrils binding the Space Marines to the pillars quivered, growing weaker and weaker.

Arvael drew in a breath and yelled, "Our chains loosen, now Brothers, push! Push for all you're worth!" He matched deeds to his words and heaved outwards, straining against the tendrils with all his transhuman strength. He felt his arms moving, sinking deeper into the slimy embrace of his shackles as he fought to break free and he managed to gain a few inches of clearance but all he was doing was shifting the tendrils about, he was not breaking them. The vines grew taught, but like an elastic cord they were storing ever more energy, the harder Arvael pushed the stronger they grew.

Arvael tried to fight free but the tendrils were constantly growing tighter, pulling him back against the pillar. Involuntarily his hand slipped an inch backwards and he knew that he could not break his chains. The Space Marines were still trapped and they could not escape. He looked up and saw Fiett and Kieva beginning to recover, their new forms stabilising and their equilibrium starting to adapt to its new state of being. He knew in seconds they would regain their senses and then they would not hesitate to kill the loyal Space Marines.

The others were similarly struggling and he heard Smyth gasp, "It's... not working."

Orath growled, "I can't do it, I can't break them."

All seemed lost but even as despair loomed large a new voice arose, it was Megaro and he furiously roared, "Are you Space Marines or lily-livered curs?! The foe is right before you, corrupt in form as they are in heart. Look at them and see the fiends who mock the Divine Emperor. These scum killed countless innocents, they killed your Brothers! They seek to destroy all that you swore to uphold, this shall not stand! Hate them, hate them as you have hated no other in your lives! Draw on the strength of your fury and claim your vengeance!"

Arvael heard the words and they sparked a fire in his hearts, a depthless anger that consumed his reason and burned his soul with furious zeal. Megaro's fiery speech spoke to the heart of every Space Marine and each one of them bellowed in rage as they pushed harder than they had ever pushed before. Arvael felt his arms burning; the muscles of his body tearing under the strain as his bones creaked and he heard his power armour wailing it was forced beyond its limits.

All the Space Marines were pushing for everything they were worth and Megaro howled, "Never forget, never forgive!"

Arvael unleashed one last effort, ignoring the pain of tearing muscles and the warnings screeching in his helm, he surpassed every limit he had ever known and spat through gritted teeth, "For. The. Emperor."

The tendrils surrounding him were taught as drawn bowstrings then suddenly they snapped, breaking apart with pinging sounds as they were flung away. Arvael instantly found himself dropping to the floor and his boots hit the deck as he fell into a crouch, feeling his armour surge back into life. One second later his Force-Morningstar was in his hands, glowing as his Psychic power flooded back into him, a torrent of devastating might that would wash away all who stood before him. Similar thuds resounded in his ears as the others broke free too and Arvael rose, taking a step towards his enemy.

Yet Fiett's mutated head snapped up and a feral grin spread over his diseased face as he cried, "You fools! All you have done is unleash my full power. Come to me, children of the Grandfather, I call you forth!" He raised his staff high and the brass bell rung loudly, echoing in the fane and beyond. From the passages beyond came a dry, shrieking noise as thousands of desiccated throats screeched as one, joining together in an unholy awakening.

Arvael gripped his weapon tighter as the sounds of rushing feet echoed from the entrances and he cried, "Ware Brothers, the Undead are coming!"


	39. Chapter 39

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 39**

The sound of countless feet echoed loudly in the fane, accompanied by the sibilant hiss of thousands of throats screeching. The noise echoed from every entrance, ringing in the rafters of the desecrated shrine. It rolled over the mouldy pews, where barely alive souls yet lolled and resonated over the small circle of Space Marines.

Arvael heard the cries of the Undead closing and knew that they had seconds until the foe reached the fane yet he was not given pause. Instead he flung himself at the raised platform, desperate to reach the newly-born Plague Marines that had once been Kieva and Fiett. His power came in fits and starts, his connection to the Warp made rough and sore by its enforced suppression but decades of practice in the heart of battle let him master the flows of energy and shape them through his mental architecture. His Force-Morningstar glowed brightly, the crystalline head ready to unleash his telekinetic might, and he took two whole steps forward before the enemy could react.

Fiett saw him coming and brandished his staff as he cried a tangled knot of syllables. Arvael felt the surge of foetid warp energy from ten feet away and hurriedly threw up a protective kine shield between them. A moment later Fiett's eyes blazed with crackling Warp energy and with a triumphant howl loosed a bolt of pure darkness, arcing straight at the Librarian. The bolt slammed into Arvael's shield and splashed over it, spilling droplets of lethal energy like a bucket of water over a window. Arvael grimaced as he felt the brunt of the attack impact into his mind, his spirit absorbing the blow in preference to his physical body. The sheer brutality of it rocked him to his core but he perceived that this was borrowed power. Fiett was no natural Psyker, having no metaphysical gifts of his own he had bargained with Daemons and purchased power with the lives of sacrifices. The resulting Sorcery was mighty indeed but also raw and inexperienced, Fiett was playing with forces beyond his control, but like a child with a loaded gun he was still deadly.

Fiett raised his staff once more but suddenly another person entered the fray, it was Yones, who had risen unnoticed from the altar while they duelled. He threw himself at Fiett's back, knife in hand and tried to stab him in the neck. Unfortunately he wasn't the only one still free to move, for the disgusting figure of Kieva slammed into him, knocking him off the platform at the last second. Arvael tried to take advantage of the momentary distraction to advance but Fiett opened his mouth and a torrent of black flies spilled forth. They filled the air with their buzzing drone and circled the platform, engulfing it in an impenetrable black cloud of whirling bodies. Arvael was forced to withdraw as the pair disappeared, he tried to peer beyond the sorcerous miasma but even as he did so he heard Orath yell, "Damn it Arvael, we need you!"

Arvael's head snapped around and he saw that while he had been duelling the Sorcerer the Undead had started pouring through every entrance, hundreds of them streaming into the fane. They ran with their clawed hands outstretched and their eyes glowed with infernal power as they moved with shocking speed and ferocity. Men and women, young and old, strong and weak, the Undead encompassed all ages and walks of life, but all of them were as one in death. Their withered faces bore a feral anger and their eyes blazed with otherworldly power as they charged, a vision of hell terrifying enough to break the courage of any mortal man.

Yet set against them were Orath, Smyth and Megaro, defiant and unyielding, even in the face of a nightmare brought into reality. Three Space Marines against thousands, it was the stuff of legends, but not the kind that ended in victory. "Come on!" Arvael yelled to Yones as he turned to aid his brethren, knowing Fiett was momentarily beyond his reach. The pair of them rushed to join the fray and as they did so he was relieved to see everybody had retrieved their weapons. He skidded to a halt next to them as they faced down the oncoming horde of revenants, each one of them preparing to sell their lives dearly. Arvael saw the sheer numbers coming for them and knew that even Space Marines could not prevail against such odds, so he reached out with his power and seized the nearest pews. A mental heave sent them skidding through the packed ranks of running foes, knocking undead fiends down left and right as he slammed the pews into the smaller entrances. Broken wood and shattered bodies piled up in the corners, blocking the routes and cutting the flow of enemies in half, only the main double doors remained open now.

Sadly the Undead did not understand the concept of fear; they rallied in heartbeats and threw themselves at the Space Marines without any thought for self-preservation. Smyth met the first one with a sweep of the Sword of Thiel, slicing a former deckhand into two halves. The next he met with a stab through the face and the one after that he met with a bash from the hilt. Slice, stab, bash, slice, stab, bash, over and over. His bladework was mechanical and repetitive but effective and he cut down a score of fiends in moments even as they swamped him, claw-like hands tearing at the seals of his armour.

Meanwhile Megaro was swinging a Crozius shaped like a winged skull into knots of foes, each strike letting loose a blast of power. Revenants piled in, trying to drown him in bodies but his arm never stopped moving, smashing apart foes relentlessly as a pile driver. He shattered skulls and sundered undead with righteous cries of hatred and bellowed joyfully, "True battle at last! For too long Ruin-Maker has lain silent, my weapon rejoices at this slaughter!"

Orath was standing shoulder to shoulder with him as he yelled, "Kill now, crow about it later!" The Terminator was being swamped by dashing fiends, they piled onto him in droves but Orath fought on regardless. His Thunder hammer smote left and right, shattering bodies apart with mighty claps of discharging energy while his Storm Shield battered foes down with graceless bashes. Any whom fell to his wrath were crushed under his boots, bones snapping from his sheer weight. Orath became an unstoppable juggernaut, never ceasing in his attacks, never pausing as he hewed down his foes.

Arvael was one step behind, swinging his Morningstar at any fiend who came near to them. He channelled telekinetic power through his blows and every time he made contact he sent foes flying away in pieces. A fiend in deck chief's uniform was reduced to a shower of arcing limbs, then a woman in a petty officer's pins was blown apart, followed by an elderly scavenger who was sent bodily into a knot of revenants, knocking them all down.

The Space Marines were breaking apart any who came near them, but so many enemies were pouring through the doors that they jammed it solid. No matter how many they killed ever more Undead were joining the fray. Suddenly Arvael saw a dozen revenants open their mouths and he knew they were about to douse the Space Marines in Warp acid. Hastily he diverted his power from offence to defence and threw up a Telekinetic dome, covering his comrades in a glowing shield of protection.

Barely a second later a torrent of acid lashed his defences, gouging into the psychic barrier with terrible potency. Arvael hissed as claws of agony sank into his soul, the pain was indescribable but the Librarian's will was steel and he refused to bend or waver. The other's redoubled their efforts, fighting from under the protection of the dome but Smyth yelled, "We're being overwhelmed!"

Orath shouted, "Can't you do another of those Glyph thingies?"

Arvael's mind was a sea of agony but he yelled, "No more than you can paint a water-colour in mid-battle."

"What do we do then?" Smyth yelled.

Arvael shouted in answer, "Yones! Break off and free Imix, his power can turn the tide!"

Instantly Yones fell back, leaving the others to hold the line. They closed in tighter, protecting each other as the revenants pressed in from all sides. Weapons rose and fell ceaselessly, shattering withered corpses even as clawed hands tore at Ceramite and Warp acids whipped over Arvael's dome of protection. The Librarian was fighting as best he could but he was simultaneously sustaining their only defence against the deadly acids, and the spiritual toll was unbearable. It was not only physical pain, the taint of the Warp was in that vile liquid and his mind was falling apart under the strain. He swung at a hissing revenant but in his delirium he missed and the fiend bounded past his faltering defence, leaping right at Orath's back with its mouth wide open to spit corrosive bile.

Orath was fully engaged and could not cover his own back but at the last second a golden mace caught the fiend mid-leap. It was Megaro, swinging Ruin-Maker in a roundhouse blow that blasted the shrieking revenant away. He resumed killing an instant later, standing shoulder to shoulder with the warrior whose life he had just saved but Orath yelled, "This doesn't mean I suddenly like you."

"Good!" Megaro roared, "Stoke your anger, let it embolden your arm!"

The battle hung on a knife's edge but then Arvael heard a great cracking noise and he saw the worse possible thing he could imagine. The pews he had jammed into the smaller entrances were falling apart, dissolving as sprays of Warp acid disintegrated them and yet more Undead fiends jostled behind, eager to join the fray.

"We're about to be overrun!" Smyth yelled as he sliced a burly deckhand in two.

"Not yet!" Arvael barked, "Yones, where the hell is Imix?!"

He couldn't risk looking backwards but heard Yones cried, "He's free and coming to!"

Indeed Imix was stirring; Arvael could feel him rousing as the mighty Psyker gathered his power, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. Imix's awakening would have been startling to any not familiar with the enhanced cognition of a Space Marine, in heartbeats he went from drowsily insensate to fully conscious and tactically viable. Arvael could feel his mind taking in the scene in moments, processing the threat and rising to meet it with full fury.

Imix rose to his feet and cried, "The battle goes ill!"

"We were hoping you could do something about that!" Orath barked as he smashed apart a trio of thrashing fiends with one blow.

Imix's mind flashed over the scene like a searchlight and he cried, "Fear not, reinforcements are at hand!"

"Where?" Smyth yelled back as he smashed apart a skull with the pommel of the Sword of Thiel.

"They await our summons," Imix yelled, "Give me the names of your dead!"

"He's gone mad!" Megaro yelled as he ripped the head off a wailing revenant.

But Imix roared, "Give me their names!"

The others were confused by the cry but Arvael responded with a telepathic impulse, projecting the names of the fallen to the Shade-Seer. Imix gripped his staff tightly in both hands and raised it high as he cried, "Arkais, Maral, Nabalai, Sonatas, Ingvis. I summon forth the spirits of the lost, come Brothers, come and claim your vengeance!"

Arvael could sense what he was doing but couldn't believe it; Imix was channelling vast amounts of Warp power directly into the auras of the fallen. Much as Arvael had scanned the aura of a dead Primaris, except Imix was instead rebuilding the spirits, empowering the psychic death-echoes with raw Warp energy. It was a staggering feat of supernatural mastery and Arvael knew he could never match it, not if he studied the technique for a hundred years.

"What the Frak is this?!" he heard Orath yell as five ghost warriors appeared in the fane, each one a perfect recreation of a dead Primaris, right down to the weapons in their hands. The dead stood perfectly still for a moment then their ghostly mouths opened to let out a silent roar as they charged into the fray. The living stepped back in amazement as the two sides met, tearing into each other with wild abandon. Arvael could only look on in wonder as the dead and the Undead joined together in a battle to determine the fates of the living


	40. Chapter 40

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 40**

In the desecrated fane two supernatural forces battled. Teeming throngs of revenants screeched as they charged forward, their claw-like hands slashing at the air as their eyes blazed with ethereal power. They packed the entrances, countless bodies jostling to break into the shrine and join the battle. They were nightmares and they knew nothing save a terrible urge to destroy and tear down all that opposed them.

Set against them the shades of the slain Primaris Marines sallied forth. Blazing with ethereal energies, their forms shimmered constantly as they charged into the fray. They tore through the packed revenants and their spectral weapons were wrapped in ethereal flames as they cast down all they encountered. Ghostly bolt rifles spat burning rounds that punched fiends off their feet and glimmering knives felled revenants left and right. The curious thing was that they were dealing no physical damage at all, the bodies of the fallen were totally unmarked, but anything they touched collapsed instantly. They were fighting the Warp with the Warp, neutralising the energies that animated the Undead to leave them inert.

The most terrifying thing about the ghosts was that they fought in complete silence, their cries and discharging weapons making no noise, but they were all the more unnerving for it. They charged into the fray with wild abandon, giving no quarter and asking for none, as they drove back the fiends. Arvael could see the faces of the ghosts as they bellowed in fury but more than that he could sense the flows of energy Imix was channelling into them, sustaining their presence with Immaterial power. The ghosts weren't quite projections of his will, but neither were they independent minds of their own. They were something else, something in between but they were deadly none the less. In moments the ghosts had driven the revenants back to the entrances and there they held the line, denying the fiends access. Arvael saw the turn of the tide and knew their moment to strike at the Traitors had come, but he also knew the respite would last only as long as Imix could sustain the apparitions. He turned and yelled, "Yones, stay here and keep Imix alive. No matter what nothing can be allowed to touch him. Everyone else with me!"

With that he turned his back on the embattled ghosts and raced for the centre of the fane, Smyth, Megaro and Orath in tow. Before them lay the platform, still surrounded by a buzzing cloud of swirling flies that blocked the way. They formed a pestilent miasma as their droning wings cut across the ears like a rasp. Orath stomped forward shouting, "Come on, its only flies."

"Stop," Arvael barked, "The Warp is in them, to go in there is death."

"Then do something about it," Megaro snarled, "Blast them away!"

Arvael was already examining the ethereal energies at play. He could see a pattern in the way the cloud moved, a matrix that sustained the hex. He concluded that the defence had been hastily erected and the foundations were not sound. It was a strong casting but crude, a simple enchantment built by a mind who understood nothing of subtly, as complicated as a wall of sandbags. It took Arvael a heartbeat to conclude that Fiett had employed power he didn't understand, his Daemonic allies had given him potency, but he had taken no time to study or appreciate it. He was a simple mind using simple tactics, Fiett may wield power but Arvael had the greater experience. The Librarian scanned the matrix and spotted a key weakness in the defence, a node that was quivering under the strain. It was no effort at all for him to extend his telekinetic power and tear the weak point apart, ripping out the keystone of the hex. Instantly the matrix collapsed, falling apart before his surgical strike and the pestilent miasma exploded outwards, as the flies fled in all directions.

Revealed beyond the cloud were the forms of Kieva and Fiett and their diseased faces looked up in shock as Fiett cried, "You! You should be dead!"

"Take them!" Smyth roared as they moved to attack.

The pair of Traitors responded in kind, Kieva barrelling straight at them while Fiett hung back, raising his staff high as the brass bell rang. Instinctively the loyalists split up, Megaro and Smyth engaging Kieva in a duel while Arvael prepared to battle the sorcerous assault. Orath however swung wide and stormed past the duel, heading right for Fiett.

"No hammer can match the power of Nurgle!" the Sorcerer cackled, his eyes blazing with infernal might as he unleashed a blast of ravening power.

Yet Arvael had sensed the surge of unrefined energy and threw up a Kine shield between them. The blast splashed off the shimmering barrier as Orath lumbered forward roaring, "Prepare to die!"

The Terminator bore down upon him and swung his Thunder Hammer right at his chest but Fiett gripped his staff two-handed and blocked the attack. The blow should have shattered the flimsy material and obliterated the Sorcerer, but instead it deflected off it like it was made of Adamantium and Orath was forced to take a step backwards from the recoil. Arvael could sense Fiett channelling corrupted power, bloating his Transhuman strength with the unholy vigour of Chaos. The Librarian's Psychic hood glowed as he tried to unpick the invocation but it was raw and primal force flooding Fiett's body, the very crudity of it working in the Sorcerer's favour.

Fiett swung his staff at the Terminator but Orath got his shield up in time and the in-built force field flared as the blow rang loudly. Fiett laughed gleefully, "The Grandfather has granted me strength beyond measure!"

"He should have given you an unbroken breastplate!" Orath roared as his hammer swung low and caught the tangle of intestines hanging from the Sorcerer's belly.

Sinews twisted and tore, charring black as the flaring disruption field incinerated them and in one sweep of his weapon Orath ripped away a great chunk of flesh. Yet Fiett cried in scorn, "You fool, I feel no pain!"

Orath lined up for another strike but the Sorcerer opened his rotten maw and belched loudly. Arvael felt the surge of primal power and tried to counter it but he was too slow and the wind came out as a raging hurricane, a tornado of force that slammed into Orath and sent him flying. Even the heft of Terminator armour was unable to deny the raw power of Chaos and he was sent soaring backwards, landing on his back at the very edge of the platform. Arvael saw him foundering and knew it would take precious time for him to regain his feet, Tactical Dreadnought plate was many things, but agile it was not.

Arvael knew Orath was vulnerable and wasted not a second to leap into physical combat, swinging his Force-Morningstar right at the giggling Sorcerer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Smyth and Megaro duelling Kieva, but there was no time to check on their progress, this fight demanded all his attention. He swung his weapon wide; trying to get around the staff but Fiett was faster and blocked it with his staff.

Again and again Arvael struck but the Sorcerer met every blow as he guffawed, "You thought you were the stronger, but the Dark Gods have granted me power and freedom beyond measure!"

Arvael kept up his assault as he growled, "Freedom? You idiot, you don't control this power, it controls you. You are nothing but a puppet of Chaos!"

"I am no puppet, I am free. Free of the lies and ignorance of the Imperium!" Fiett snarled as he lashed out with his staff. Arvael hastily threw up a Kine shield and felt his mind quiver as the Sorcery-fuelled blow slammed into his defence. Yet Arvael was not bowed and instantly he collapsed his shield inwards, wrapping it around Fiett's extended arm like a shackle upon his wrist. Then he yanked the Sorcerer forward even as his weapon swung for the flanks. Fiett was pulled forwards and the glowing crystal head slammed into his side, buckling Ceramite and crushing his chest inwards. Such a blow should have killed him instantly but all it did was make him stagger, his breathing laboured as his lungs were pierced by shards of bone. He stepped backwards, holding his staff level as he spat, "I actually felt that."

"You'll feel more than that in second," Arvael roared as he leapt forward already swinging for a killing stroke. Arvael's Force-Morningstar slammed into the Sorcerer's defences over and over, buckling plates and crushing Ceramite, but empowered by the God of Decay Fiett did not fall. In turn the Sorcerer's blows were fired by Unholy strength, forcing Arvael to keep a Kine shield up at all times, for even one direct hit could kill him.

Back and forth they duelled and Arvael felt the toll wearing down his mental endurance, the continued use of his power draining his reserves. Yet his hatred for his foe swelled within him and forced him to continue, the betrayals, the deceptions and the defilement of all their shared ideals set a fire in his breast that could not be denied. This filth had thrown aside all they had ever valued and embraced the very thing they had sworn to oppose. He was an abomination in every sense of the word and Arvael was determined to end him. But even a Librarian could not deny the strength of the Dark Gods and Fiett managed to land a blow that sent Arvael crashing backwards, his plate sparking and fitzing as he fell onto the ground. He lolled there, struggling to regain his feet but knowing he did not have the time before Fiett ended him.

Yet what neither of them had noticed was Orath rising once more. In his cumbersome plate the Terminator was struggling to get his feet under him and grabbed the nearest plinth for support, accidentally crushing the mutated skull upon it. Instantly the matrix of the mirror world lurched, shaking as its foundations were kicked out from under it. Fiett was rocked back by the ethereal tremours, his killing blow forgotten as he cried, "No! Not that!"

From the ground Arvael saw his distress and reacted instantly, extending his mind to grab all six remaining skulls. His spirit recoiled from the loathsome taint befouling them but he forced down his revulsion and gripped tighter and tighter, squeezing the skulls with inexorable force until they shattered.

Instantly the foundations of the mirror world crumbled and the gossamer thin barrier holding it apart from reality disintegrated and, with nowhere else to go, all physical objects held within were dumped back into the Materium. For an instant there seemed to be two shrines, one laid over the other, but then they merged together. Everybody was right where they had been and the corruption still persisted but now Arvael sensed a thousand wards shrieking in alarm across the ship, screaming alerts to any who could perceive them.

Fiett's voice cracked as he screamed in outrage, "No, you've let them see us! You've ruined everything, I'll kill you for this!" Arvael saw the final blow coming but also perceived that so enraged was Fiett that he had made a novices' error, focusing upon Sorcerous power alone and so neglecting his mental defences. A veteran Psyker like Arvael always kept a small reserve to hand and he instantly stabbed a telepathic spear into the exposed psyche, tearing into pain receptors that had been suppressed by Nurgle's blessing. Fiett screamed and dropped his staff to grab at his skinless skull as pain he had forgotten could exist tore through him.

Arvael saw him stagger and instantly swung low, aiming his weapon at Fiett's knee. A flare of power shattered the armour, blowing the leg clean off in a spray of gore and Fiett fell, slamming into the ground with a loud clang. His rotten face filled with shock and he cried, "No, I don't want to die, Nurgle promised me immortality."

Arvael rose to his feet and looked upon his former friend, feeling nothing but contempt, for the debased cur. This was no friend, this was a Traitor most foul and Arvael felt only righteous vindication as he drew back his arm and then sent his Force-Morningstar straight at Fiett's face. Telekinetic power discharged on impact, causing skin and bone to burst outwards as Fiett's head exploded, spraying brains in a wide circle.

The Sorcerer fell limp and unmoving as Arvael drew back and took in his handiwork, Fiett was dead and justice had been done, yet he knew that accounted for only one of the Traitors. He looked about and tried to discern what had become of Smyth and Megaro as they had battled Kieva and gasped at what he beheld.


	41. Chapter 41

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 41**

Kieva was a whirling dervish, a mad profusion of claws and whipping tentacles as he fought within the fane. His bloated jowls whipped around his jaw as he dove to and fro, one second in one spot, the next several feet away. It didn't seem possible, such a diseased and corpulent figure should be slow and ungainly, yet Kieva seemed to have lost none of his speed or skill in the transformation that had turned him into a nightmare.

Facing up against him Lieutenant Smyth was struggling to keep track of his foe. Kieva seemed to possess more limbs than he should, creating a gale of thrashing extremities. Smyth gripped his relic blade tightly and parried as best he could but his defence was lacking and he could not keep up. Only the presence of Megaro, fighting tooth and nail beside him, seemed to even the odds, yet their advantage in numbers was not so great as to tip the balance.

Smyth fended off a lash of the whipping tentacle as he shouted, "How could you do this?!"  
Kieva laughed as his toxic claws fended off a strike from Megaro and he proclaimed "The gifts of Chaos are real but the false Emperor never gave me anything!"

The slur incensed Smyth and he roared as he lunged forward, trying to strike the mutated body of Kieva. His hatred burned brightly within him and he hacked and slashed for all he was worth, but despite all his efforts he could not reach the body of the Traitor. Every stab was deflected, every slash parried again and again as the toxic claws kept coming within an inch of ending him. Smyth tried to press his assault but another stab from the claws forced him to parry, yet even as he did so the tentacle lashed at his face and sent him staggering backwards.

Instantly Megaro doubled his own assault, to cover the moment of weakness, but he seemed to be having no more success than Smyth had. Kieva's flailing tentacle created an impenetrable defence while his black claws slashed and hacked, dripping with toxins and countless putrefying diseases. Nothing the pair could do seemed able to penetrate his defence and it was only a matter of time until he landed a lethal blow.

Smyth was about to charge back into the fray but then he spotted something and an idea formed. He ducked to scoop something from the ground and then charged with the relic blade in his right hand and Kieva's forgotten Martian power-sword in the other. Smyth dived into the whirling tangle of limbs, trying to find a weak spot yet finding nothing. He could not see well enough to place a blow and he knew in moments Kieva would turn his attention upon him. With nothing left to lose Smyth elected to disregard all his Martian training, ignoring every tenant of logic and reason he chose to trust in blind luck and plunged both blades into the mad frenzy of limbs, slashing them over each other in a scissor motion. A weight caught between his blades and he heaved with all his might, cutting something free. It was Kieva's tentacle and it sprayed black blood freely as Smyth scythed it clean off.

Kieva roared in anger and swung his toxic claws around as he bellowed, "You pathetic glitch!" Ceramite parted under the blow and skin was shredded by the tip of the claws but it was enough to send Smyth staggering as he felt his body burning from head to toe. He had only been scratched but he could feel the lethal pathogens flooding his bloodstream, trying to corrupt his cells and mutate him. His gene-seed burned hot as it fought off the infection, but palsies shook his limbs and he fell down, unable to stand or fight. Smyth was reduced to watching helplessly as Megaro fought on all alone.

Outmatched the Chaplain made a desperate swing with his Crozius but Kieva adroitly stepped back and let it pass before his face, then he leaned in with a wicked grin and snicked the right arm entirely off. The whole limb went flying, taking the Crozius with it and as Megaro tried to process the loss, Kieva rammed his claws into the Chaplain's side, punching deeply into the chest. Megaro froze in shock as deadly diseases flooded from the toxic claws and Kieva leaned in to whisper smugly, "I would say this will be quick and painless, but that would be a lie."

Smyth gasped in disbelief at the sight; Megaro was dying before his eyes. Yet even as Kieva drove his claws deeper something inexplicable happened. The ring of skulls surrounding the combatants suddenly shattered, spraying shards of bone everywhere. Smyth felt the strangest feeling pass over him, like he was falling from a great height and the entire fane blurred before his eyes. It was eerie in a way he could not articulate but the effect upon Keiva was astonishing. The bloated Traitor threw back his head and screamed, "NO!" Instantly Smyth acted, ignoring the burning in his guts and the tremors in his limbs he drew back the Sword of Thiel and hurled overarm as he shouted, "Megaro!" The relic blade spun end over end as it flew, its blade flaring arcs of radiant lightning. It seemed to soar through the air, certain and deliberate in its arc as the hilt landed in the Chaplain's waiting palm.

Megaro caught the sword in his left hand and he roared as he swung it over his body, exploiting its momentum to slash Kieva' outstretched arm at the wrist. Befouled Ceramite parted under the sword's kiss, diseased flesh and mottled bone proving no match for the ancient relic's disruption field and in one blow Megaro severed the limb clean off, leaving the claw sticking out of his right flank like a loathsome growth.

Kieva screamed as he was rendered armless, staggering away as he cried, "This cannot be, Nurgle I need your pestilent aid!"  
Megaro's anger waxed strong, overpowering the diseases flooding him as he gave pursuit. Rage burned in his eyes and he drew the Sword of Thiel back as he snarled, "No God is coming for you, only me!"

Kieva's eyes went wide in shock and he retreated backwards and he spluttered, "No, it can't be! Nurgle's Rot is in your blood, you should be dying!"  
Enraged Megaro slashed the sword one-handed across Kieva's breastplate, slicing a deep furrow as he bellowed, "Your filthy God cannot kill me: I am the Divine Emperor's vengeance!"

On and on Megaro came, transforming into a relentless juggernaut and with every step he lashed out, tearing Kieva apart one cut at a time. His ire was staggering to behold, his rage was a tornado of raw fury and between each stroke he shouted, "I am justice! I am doom! I am retribution for all your victims! I shall never relent! I shall never forget! I shall never forgive!"

Kieva' plate was in tatters now, falling off him in chunks as he cried, "How can you still be standing?! Where did you find such strength?!"  
But Megaro only continued his assault, slashing across the gorget as he roared furiously, "I am the Emperor's Storm!"

Then Megaro drew the Sword of Thiel level before lunging forward, ramming the point right into Kieva's throat and out the other side. He crashed chest to chest with his foe and stared right into the Traitor's eyes as he snarled, "I am His Wrath!"

Silence fell as the pair stared into each other's eyes; one filled with righteous hatred the other with disbelief and shock. Kieva stood there for long seconds, mouth opening and closing silently, then he finally keeled over, sliding off the blade and slamming down onto the floor with a heavy thud. Megaro stood over the foul Traitor's rotting corpse, as his chest heaved from exertion. The blade in his hand shone brilliantly and his black plate was dark as midnight, making him the image of an ancient hero stepping from myth, right up till the moment he too collapsed.

Smyth gasped as he saw Megaro fall and painfully forced himself upright so he could stagger over to the Chaplain on wobbly legs. His guts were burning and his eyes watered as his gene-seed fought off the infections, but one glance was enough to see that Megaro was in a far worse state. The Chaplain's face was pale and sweat coated his face as he shivered in a way no Transhuman ever should. Meanwhile green ooze was seeping from the wound in his side, where Kieva's claw was still embedded. Smyth fell to his knees and grabbed the claw with both hands to yank it out. He expected Larraman cells to flood the wound but the oozing continued unabated. It was obvious that Megaro's injury was too severe and the infection was too deeply rooted and Smyth realised that Megaro was not going to recover from this wound.

He heard armoured boots closing and saw Arvael approaching but Smyth shook his head to indicate it was too late to intervene. Then Megaro's eyes rolled over and he coughed blood as he whispered, "That... bad?"  
Smyth didn't have to reply, his eyes said everything for him.

"Do not mourn," Megaro gurgled, "I slew the Traitor, the Divine Emperor's will has been done this day."  
Smyth swallowed meaningless protests and said, "I misjudged you, I thought you were the Traitor. I am…"  
"No," Megaro tried to bark but fell back in a fit of coughing, "Do not… apologise, not… now… not ever. Apologies are for the weak… the strong… choose to act and to live with the consequences."

Arvael leaned in and said, "We shall carry your name back to the Chapter, to be entered in the Scrolls of Honour."  
Megaro wheezed as the toxins bored through him, "I care not how I am remembered. I ask no forgiveness for what I have done, I ask only one thing: kill me quickly and send me to His side as I am, not as a diseased thing."

Smyth's spirit fell at the mortis request but his hands were sure as he picked up the Sword of Thiel and pointed it over Megaro's hearts. He looked into the eyes of the Chaplain and said, "Any last words?"  
Megaro grimaced as he uttered, "Only this: the last True Believer died in His service, there is no finer fate."

With that Smyth pushed the blade downwards, cracking Ceramite and breaking open ribs as he cleaved the hearts in twain. Megaro let out one last gasp and his eyes stared into infinity and then he went pale and limp as death claimed him. Smyth held the blade firmly for second after second, gripping it fiercely long after Megaro had stopped breathing. Then Arvael closed the Chaplain's eyes and said, "He is gone."

With sadness filling his hearts Smyth stood up and withdrew the sword. He looked upon the fallen Chaplain and his hearts were torn, for so long he had doubted this Marine and thought the worst of him but at the last he had proved true. Smyth lowered his head and whispered, "May the Omnissiah look upon your spirit with favour."

With that Smyth turned his face away to survey the battlefield. He found that the noise of the battle seemed to be fading, the last dregs of the Undead falling to the ghostly spirits of the fallen Primaris. Smyth didn't understand how they could be running out of bodies already, but then his Autosenses picked out distant sounds of battle and he realised reinforcements were coming, the defenders of the Macragge's Honour were moving to confront the incursion in their midst.

The last of the Undead fell and silence descended on the fane. Imix was still clasping his staff but then he sagged and Smyth saw the ghosts of his fallen comrades starting to fade and evaporate into nothingness. Yet even as they disappeared Smyth could have sworn he saw the shade of Ingvis grin knowingly at him and touch two fingers to his brow in an impudent salute. Then they were gone, taken to wherever souls dwelt after death.

At last the corrupted fane grew quiet and Smyth's spirit ached for all they had lost this day, but he knew their task was not yet completed. He looked at Arvael and said, "So, what are we going to do about this place?"


	42. Chapter 42

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 42**

"The fane is being cleansed as we speak," proclaimed the voice of Hypras, the Grey Knight Librarian having taken charge of the efforts to eradicate the incursion into the Macragge's Honour. Arvael was glad to see the warrior-Psyker again, his purity a refreshing balm after the putrid corruption of the desecrated fane. Hypras had not been the first soul they had encountered after leaving the scene, but they had been swiftly isolated and contained, before the inevitable screening for taint.

Hypras had secured Arvael, Imix, Orath, Smyth and Yones in a secure interrogation chamber and thoroughly probed their minds, confirming their stories and checking they had not been corrupted by the filth of Chaos. Hours had crawled by until Hypras declared himself satisfied that they had not been turned by the Dark Gods. Now the Grey Knight was telling them what was occurring outside, "The Custodes and the Unnumbered Sons are running down the last of the Undead, they will soon be eradicated. My order is scouring the fane itself; there will be no trace left of the taint. Just to be sure Jaric Phoros has offered a supply of the Fire Lord's incendiary devices; the whole compartment will be blasted free of the ship and detonated in the void."

Sergeant Yones frowned at that and said, "Wait, I thought the Fire Lords were mixed up in this scandal."

Yet Smyth shook his head and corrected, "No, Kieva was lying. The Fire Lords were in no way involved with any of this, they are pure."

Hypras looked pensive as he said, "Be that as it may we still have serious questions to answer, chief among them how the Traitors evaded my scans. The spatial bi-location hid their sorcery but our scans of their minds should have revealed the truth."

Orath was staring with his jaw wide open, forcing Arvael to bash him with an elbow. The Terminator blinked and said, "Sorry, still struggling to get used to the idea of Grey Knights being real. Anyway, I was going to say they were True Believers, that's how."

"Explain," Hypras snapped in irritation.

Hastily Arvael elaborated, "The True Believers held themselves to be correct in all things; they absolutely believed that they were right. That's how they evaded your scans, you detected their certainty but it hid a darker intent."

"I don't make mistakes like that," Hypras growled.

Imix stepped in then to say, "Did you not fixate upon Megaro? We all did, every eye was upon him, thus the Traitors could move undetected."

"Pah," Hypras spat in disgust, "An unforgivable blunder, I will have to review our security."

Smyth stepped in then to say, "What of his comrades?"

"Yes," Yones added, "There were five more refugees who came with Megaro and Fiett, all former Storm Heralds. What do we do with them?"

Arvael answered briskly, "Execute them."

Everybody started and Smyth said, "These are your kin we are talking about."

Arvael didn't like the idea but he knew his duty all to well and explained, "They stood alongside the Traitors for years, who knows what poison was dripped into their ears, what filth they were exposed to. We cannot take the chance of them being corrupted. We must kill them immediately."

Yones looked ashen-faced as he said, "We don't know that they were corrupted."

Yet Imix interjected, "We know not that they weren't. The risk is too great, they must die."

Smyth looked completely shocked and even Orath argued, "This is harsh, even for you. Surely we could give them a chance, Captain Toran would argue they should be given an opportunity to prove themselves."

"Toran isn't here, I am," Arvael snapped, "In matters of the Warp the Librarius' word is law and I judge the threat is too great to ignore. A moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of Heresy."

There was a snort of disgust and Arvael heard Smyth sneer, "I heard your Captain spouting many high ideals about honour and Brotherhood, but now I see it is rank hypocrisy. You Storm Heralds are as ruthless and jaded as any Chapter in the galaxy."

Yet Arvael refused to be browbeaten and faced him squarely saying, "The Captain believes every word he says, but only because we Librarians are here to make the hard choices. We do this so our kin don't have to."

Smyth spat angrily, "In that case, you can have this back."

With that he unbuckled the Sword of Thiel from his hip, where it lay next to Kieva's old sword, and tossed it over to the Librarian. Arvael snatched it from the air and blinked in surprise as he said, "You're giving it back?"

"It never suited me, this Martian blade fits my hand better," Smyth uttered, "Besides I don't want anything that reminds me of you Storm Heralds, the sooner we part ways the better."

Orath growled, "I couldn't agree more, if I never see a Primaris again, it will be too soon."

Hypras sighed loudly, "Stop squabbling, we have bigger concerns. The Undead ran amok in the lower decks, we can't hide this incursion. The Primarch wants answers; we need to determine what to tell him."

Yones frowned and said, "The incursion is defeated and the Traitors are dead. Why not Tell him the truth?"

Yet Imix shook his head and sighed, "Some truths are too bitter to bear, this cannot be known."

Yones looked confused as he asked, "Why?"

"Because a Primaris Marine fell to Chaos," Smyth guessed, "They can't allow that information to get out."

Imix softly confirmed, "Mighty are the forces set against the Great One's reforms, countless are the Chapters resentful of the new Primaris. Any imperfection will be seized upon, any excuse to reject them. For the sake of all humanity the Primaris must be seen to be pure and incorruptible, at least until the Indomitus Crusade has saved the galaxy. Not even the Great One cannot be allowed to know they are flawed creations."

Yones sneered, "You want to cover this up?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Hypras muttered.

Arvael glossed over that and said, "But surely Guilliman knows already."

Yet Hypras explained, "He knows only the vaguest details."

Imix looked thoughtful and mused, "Megaro, his name fits."

Hypras concurred, "Then we enact the Morpheus protocol."

Arvael knew that term from his Librarius training and said, "Morpheus… is that really necessary?"

"Absolutely," Hypras growled.

Orath, Yones and Smyth looked at each other with curious expressions and then the Terminator inquired, "I've not heard that one, what is Morpheus protocol?"

Imix drew in a slow breath and proclaimed, "We replace real truths with good truths. The name of Megaro shall be cast down as a Traitor, all shall believe it, for no soul trusted him. Kieva's name shall be raised up, as the tragic hero who uncovered vile Heresies and died to stop the wiles of Chaos."

Smyth started in shock and spluttered, "You want us to commend a Traitor?! That filth disgraced us all, he deserves eternal scorn. I won't speak of him as if he was some hero, I refuse."

Arvael saw the Lieutenant's defiance and implored, "For the good of the Imperium you will."

"No," Smyth's spat with a scowl of contempt, "Have we learned nothing from the mistakes of the past? A sound structure cannot be built on a flawed foundation and an Empire cannot be built upon lies. You ask us to commit slander but whatever else Megaro was, he died a hero. To paint him as a Traitor is an insult and I will not stand for it, I will take this to the Primarch himself if I have to."

Arvael looked up at the proud Primaris and sadly said, "Smyth, I am sorry to say that you misunderstand our intent. We weren't proposing to give you any choice in the matter."

All three Space Marines blinked in shocked disbelief but before they could react the three Librarians struck. Instantly Imix's raw potency slammed into the trio, overwhelming their spirits and stripping away their defences. Orath, Yones and Smyth were paralysed as their mental walls collapsed and into their suddenly open minds sharp telepathic scalpels sank deep.

With the way open Arvael probed through their psyches, highlighting nodes of recollection while Hypras followed, carefully editing the memories. Arvael had been impressed earlier by his precise skill, but that had been a simple mind-wipe, this was rewriting recollections in the most subtle manner. It was supremely delicate work, each neuron having to be reconditioned one by one, but the three Space Marines were helpless to resist as their memories were rewritten; the truth of the facts being stripped from them to be replaced with bald-faced lies.

The psychic surgery took almost a minute to complete, an eternity to a Psyker, but at last it was done and the Librarians reviewed their handiwork. Orath, Yones and Smyth looked stupefied, faces slack and unresponsive as their minds adjusted to their new configuration. Hypras scrutinised them and then tested his work, "You followed Megaro into the bilges."

"We followed Megaro into the bilges," all three chorused with Servitor-like monotony.

"You found a Chaos shrine," Hypras stated, "Megaro was revealed to be a Traitor."

"We found a Chaos shrine," they intoned but Smyth hesitated and said, "Megaro was… Megaro was…."

"A Traitor," Hypras growled sternly.

"Megaro was…" Smyth stuttered clearly fighting the changes to his mind, an impressive feat of will for a non-Psyker.

Hypras looked choleric but Imix stepped into to say, "Captain Kieva slew the Traitor, he died most nobly in the service of Terra."

"Kieva died nobly," Smyth repeated, the adjusted memory conforming with his existing values and ideals, lessening his resistance.

Hypras nodded then said, "No Primaris has ever fallen to Chaos."

"No Primaris has ever fallen to Chaos," all three intoned.

"Grey Knights do not exist," Hypras concluded firmly.

"Grey Knights do not exist," they repeated blankly.

With that Hypras turned to the others and said, "It will take time for them to adjust. Watch them closely and if they show any sign of recalling the truth then you must silence them, permanently."

"We understand," Imix affirmed.

Hypras looked at the trio one last time and then walked out, departing as if he had never been there. Arvael sighed sadly at what they had done but Imix said, "Return Orath to your kin, I will remain here and watch over these two."

Arvael bowed slightly and said, "I thank you for your teachings, may we meet again."

Imix smiled sadly and said, "You may count upon it, the stars have told me that we shall fight together another day. But give my regards to your kin; they will not see me again for some time."

Arvael wasn't sure what that prophecy implied but he turned his back and left the interrogation chamber, heading back out into the Macragge's Honour. Orath trailed behind him, oddly silent as he stomped along. Arvael knew the Terminator's mind was discombobulated and confused, his new memories taking time to settle into his psyche, but soon he would accept them as gospel truth.

The lie sat ill with Arvael, to smear the name of a fallen warrior and praise a Traitor struck at the most fundamental ideals of the Storm Heralds. Yet he was resolute that it must be done, to be a Librarian was to be more than to be a Psyker, it was to take on the burden of unspeakable deeds so that his Brothers did not have to. Arvael had participated in subterfuges, deceptions and cover-ups before and would do so again without hesitation. In a way the mistrust and wariness his kin showed towards him made life easier, it would be harder to lie to them were they to trust him unquestioningly.

Arvael wended his way through the ship; clutching the Sword of Thiel in his hands as he led the mute Orath past teams of crewmen and marching Primaris. It was odd that they paid him no mind, treating the Storm Heralds as any other warriors, something he had yet to experience upon this ship. Swiftly the Librarian made his way back to their quarters and was unsurprised to find that the Custodian Guards had departed, no doubt called away to chase down the last handful of Undead.

He stepped up to the door was about to open it when it suddenly rolled back to reveal the armoured form of Novak. The Champion blinked to see them and exclaimed, "There you are, where have you two been?!"

Arvael was given pause by the innocent question, Novak genuinely having no idea what had been going on elsewhere. Arvael had no heart to tell him the cover story so demurred, "Nowhere important."

Novak brushed off the deflection by saying, "Well you've timed it perfectly, we've just heard that Captain Toran has woken up. We're on our way to see him now, come on; we don't want to keep him waiting."


	43. Chapter 43

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 43**

Toran floated in a haze of murky clouds, drifting aimlessly in absolute nothingness. He was a mote of light in the gloom, a single point of consciousness all alone in the dark. Thoughts and memories lay near but he felt no compulsion to examine them, he had no motivation other than to be. So he drifted aimlessly, lost for an eternity in the comforting embrace of oblivion.

It was a placid state of being but it was not without limits. After an interminable length of time Toran's mind was stirred by the sound of a voice, "Vitals are stabilising."

Toran heard the words but they made no impression upon him, any meaning passing through him without understanding. After another eternity a different voice said, "Gene-seed reconstruction complete and his implants are functional once more. Physiological state shows significant improvement."

This time the words provoked a response, Toran's mind starting to reach for meaning, but the words intruded again, "Neural activity spiking, he's waking up."

"It's too soon," a different voice said, "Increase anaesthetic drip rate."

Toran struggled to form a denial but then the black clouds billowed and dragged him back into oblivion. Toran was lost in the cloying dark for an age, feeling nothing and thinking nothing. Yet he remained his sense of identity and a growing realisation crept over him that he should be doing something. Slowly the clouds parted and Toran felt himself stirring, memories and thoughts firing in his subconscious. Piece by piece his mind awoke, filling in the gaps in his awareness and then suddenly his memories came back to him in a flood and he opened his eye with a gasp.

Toran found himself laid out on a med-slab, surrounded by beeping machines. They were connected to his body via his implant sockets and they wrapped him in cables. His head was pounding and his body felt sore in ways it had never experienced before yet it was a distant pain, kept at bay by hazy clouds of sedatives. After a moment Toran's gaze focussed as his augmetic eye responded to his increased consciousness and began feeding information to his visual cortex. The surge of data felt like an ice-pick rammed into the side of his head but his will was hardening and he shoved the pain aside with the disciplines of his Space Marine training.

Toran's head turned slightly and he saw he was in a medicae suite packed with healing devices and small shrines of the Cult Mechanicus. Bags of intravenous solutions hung around him, dripping fluids into his veins while glassic screens tracked his vitals. A servo-skull was floating around the roof, trailing incense as it chanted litanies in a looped sequence.

Suddenly a rough voice cut into his awareness, "Toran… are you awake?"

His head turned the other way and he saw Chaplain Furion sitting beside him, clad once more in his black plate as concern spread over his stern features. His old friend was leaning back in a reinforced chair and in one of those odd moments of absurdity Toran noticed he was reading a small chapbook containing the Litanies of Charael, the Storm Herald's High Chaplain and First Visionary of ancient legend.

Memories came back to Toran and he drew in a breath to whisper, "Furion… did he kill me?"

Furion's concern broke into a small grin and he breathed out in relief, "No, you're not dead. You came close, but I knew you were too stubborn to die."

Toran drew in a ragged breath and whispered, "Death wouldn't hurt this much."

Furion leaned in and said, "What do you remember?"

Toran replied slowly, "I remember being hit by a Primarch, it hurt like a… actually you know what, there is no comparison for that. When a Primarch hits someone, you know it."

"You look like you were run over by a freight train," Furion agreed, "What did you say to make him spare you?"

"Can't remember, I was babbling anything I could and…" Toran confessed then a harrowing memory formed and he tried to sit up crying, "Holy flying Frak! I punched him! I punched Roboute Guilliman in the jaw!"

A fit of coughing suddenly overcame Toran and he collapsed back onto the med-slab. Furion leaned in but then another voice came from the door, "Yes, you did and in return he broke every single bone in your body."

Toran's head rolled over and he saw Apothecary Memnos standing there, his white armour shining and his Chain of Shame restored unto him.

The Apothecary strode into the room and began examining the machines surrounding Toran. The Captain looked at him and inquired, "What's my prognosis?"

Memnos kept poking various devices but replied, "Surprisingly good, the Crusade boasts the finest chirurgeons in the Imperium, you should make a full recovery."

"My thanks," Toran said.

"Don't thank me," Memnos replied, "All we did was piece your gene-seed implants back together, they did the rest. If you wish to thanks someone turn your praises unto the Emperor, it was his genius that saved you."

"Nonetheless you have my gratitude," Toran stated.

Memnos looked like he didn't know how to accept the thanks and instead turned away saying, "I will tell the others you are awake."

As Memnos left Toran turned to Furion and asked, "What is our situation?"

Furion frowned and demurred, "You should be resting."

Yet Toran insisted, "I am your Captain, tell me what I missed."

Furion drew in a breath and explained, "The Imperial Regent has lifted his condemnation upon us but not determined our official state. We are awaiting his decision; nobody really seems to know what to do with us, so we are left idle."

"What of Third Company?" Toran asked, "They remain on our ship?"

"Aye," Furion answered, "I have spoken to the Sergeants and calmed their anxieties, they have had no word since the fleet aimed their guns at the Thunderchild. I told them there was a Bureaucratic error when we arrived and we have been occupied battling our way through mountains of red tape. I blamed the incompetence of the clerks, if there is one thing our Brothers will accept without question is the ineptitude of the Adeptus Administratum."

"A lie?" Toran asked pointedly.

"Reassurance," Furion countered, "There is nothing the Third can do, so why worry them."

Toran was in no mood to argue and so queried, "Got anything to read?"

Furion smiled and passed over his chapbook then settled back to wait. Toran ignored the tremors in his hands as he flicked through the ancient teachings and histories of his Chapter. He could feel his gene-seed at work, rebuilding his body and was certain he would be up and about within the day.

After nearly an hour had passed he heard a scuffle at the door as medicaes tried to bar entry to a gang of visitors but they were swept aside as the Command Squad poured in. Persion, Novak, Jediah, Arvael and Orath, it was a tight fit but they all squeezed inside.

Novak was the first to speak, "Captain, you're awake!"

"Your mastery of the obvious remains impressive as ever," Persion quipped, "Brother-Captain, how are you?"

Toran was glad to see them again and managed to sit up without coughing as he said, "Brothers, I am glad to see you."

Novak was practically bouncing on his toes as he exclaimed, "We have wonderful news, go on Arvael, show him what you have there."

The Librarian stepped for and proffered a scabbard, containing a blade Toran knew like the back of his hand. He accepted the weapon reverently and said, "The Sword of Thiel, how did you get it back?"

Orath spoke up then to say, "There was an incident in the bilges, we recovered the Sword of Thiel after slaying that cur Megaro."

Everybody started and Novak exclaimed, "Megaro's dead? You didn't tell us that bit."

"You didn't ask," Orath snapped, "He was a filthy Traitor, we cut him down and reclaimed the Sword."

"Too quick a death," Jediah grumbled, "I wanted him to suffer for what he did."

Yet Furion countered, "Dead is dead, as long as his perfidy is ended nothing else matters."

At that point Toran noticed Arvael was looking glum, eyes downcast as if deep in thought and the Captain asked, "Brother-Librarian, something vexes thee?"

Arvael's eyes snapped up and he hastily uttered, "No… nothing, nothing at all. Orath is right: Megaro was a Traitor. Captain Kieva laid down his life to stop him."

"Kieva's dead too?" Jediah spat, "Damnation, I didn't get to kill anybody on this bloody ship."

"Too right," Orath growled, "This whole sodding mission has been a Poisoned Chalice. I say we get back on our ship, sail back to Lujan II and let the Crusade pass by and take those smug Primaris with them."

"Agreed," Persion uttered, "Let's get out of here before something else goes wrong."

"What makes you think anything else will happen?" Novak inquired.

"Have you not been paying attention?" Persion snorted, "When does anything go right for us?"

Toran let their banter wash over him as he examined the blade in his hands, it was good to have the relic back and he drew it forth an inch to examine the metal was undamaged. He had become so accustomed to the blade that he had started to take it for granted, it wasn't until it was taken away from him that he realised what it meant to him. Yet a part of his spirit was saddened by what the separation represented.

Furion caught his look and said, "You don't look happy to have the Sword back."

Toran sighed, "I am… but I must face the fact that I failed to uphold the burden of its legacy. A heritage stretching back five thousand years and I am the one who broke the chain."

Furion snorted, "I thought you didn't believe in myths of divine splendour."

Toran sighed, "It's what it represented, what it meant to our Chapter. An unbroken legacy from our ancestors, passing from one warrior's hand to another's. All the way back to the hand of our… oh… I see your point. What's the use of a memento of our gene-father when he's right here and we discover that he reviles us."

Furion was about to respond but suddenly there was sound at the door and everybody shuffled around to make way for another Astartes. Toran's head came up and he was startled to see Cato Sicarius standing there, looking down his nose at everybody present. Everybody went silent as the commander of the Victrix Guard sniffed, "I wasn't expecting a crowd."

Toran glared at him and spat, "What do you want?"

Cato Sicarius replied coldly, "I don't want to be here any more than you, but I have been given three messages to deliver."

"Well out with it," Furion snapped.

Smoothly Cato Sicarius lifted a winged golden rod from his belt and said, "This relic is to be returned to your Chapter's vaults."

Furion took the weapon gently and said, "Ruin-Maker, a Crozius of the fourth-tier. It belongs with the Storm Heralds."

"Indeed," Cato Sicarius affirmed, "Now the second thing, we need someone to come talk to your Dreadnought."

"Honourable Ajax?" Toran spluttered, "What's wrong with him?"

"We are trying to rebuild him but he's not cooperating," Cato Sicarius said, "As soon as we reattached his limbs he started attacking the Adepts. They've resorted to using remote servitors to repair him, but he keeps sending them back in pieces."

"I'll come," Arvael volunteered, "I know how to speak to him."

"Good," Cato Sicarius stated, "We have our hands full with the infestation running amok in the bilges of the ship. Now the third thing: the Lord Guilliman has issued an immediate summons to your Captain."

"But he's only just woken up," Furion protested.

Yet Cato Sicarius replied disinterestedly, "I have been issued orders and I, Cato Sicarius, will see them fulfilled."

Toran however was already pulling the plugs from his interface sockets and swinging his legs out of bed. He forced his shaky feet underneath him and said, "I am ready to go."

Furion scowled as he rebuked, "You're in no condition to be going anywhere."

"I can walk," Toran protested a moment before flopping against Novak's breastplate spluttering, "No… no I can't."

"Let us get you a wheelchair," Novak volunteered.

But Toran growled, "I am not meeting the Imperial Regent like an invalid."

Cato Sicarius sighed and rolled his eyes in exasperation, then he said, "We will retrieve your armour, that should suffice. It has been restored by our finest artisans so take ten minutes to equip yourself and then we shall go to meet the Lord Guilliman."


	44. Chapter 44

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 44**

The Scriptorium door closed with a sharp bang, leaving Toran alone in the Primarch's personal quarters. Toran stared at the closed door and fought the urge to make a snide comment. Cato Sicarius was a living legend but the Storm Herald found him aggravating and it seemed the feeling was mutual.

The Captain still ached from head to toe but his armour was supporting him. It had been meticulously restored and rebuilt by master artisans and Toran could feel the difference, the reaction speed was significantly improved and he was certain the fibre-bundle musculature had been upgraded. He made a mental note to have his Chapter's Techmarines examine the plate to glean its secrets; this could be a boon to every Storm Herald.

Toran turned to examine the Scriptorium. It was a wide space, set under an armourglass dome that revealed the stars. This chamber was a legend in its own right, the personal quarters of Roboute Guilliman had been sealed ten millennia ago and preserved exactly as he had left it. It resembled a library, a circular space ringed with ascending balconies. Each level was festooned with bookshelves, containing tomes written in languages Toran didn't recognise, but he was sure his Chapter's Librarians would forfeit their battleplates to browse through.

The ground floor had several workbenches scattered about and a large bed in one corner, one that looked like it had never been slept in. In an ornate auto-reliquary hung the Hand of Dominion, while set across from it was another case containing the Sword of the Emperor. Toran's throat clenched as he gazed in awe, the weapon had once been wielded by Him on Terra and the Captain knew he would never behold a more profound connection to the Master of Mankind. The wildest thought of actually touching the blade swam through his mind, but then he firmly turned away, he was in enough trouble already without adding to it.

Toran looked about and saw a large desk, strewn with charts and bearing a pair of hololithic projector screens. He moved to examine the contents and saw a map of the Saint Karyl Trail and the latest projections of Immaterial activity. The hololiths were frozen mid-flow and he determined that one was reporting trade-commerce projections among the core worlds, while the other bore a half-written treatise, setting forth new protocols of adjudication between Imperial authorities and the Archmagi of the Forge Worlds.

Toran was bemused by the juxtaposition and he pondered the implications. These were all in mid-project and he wondered what kind of mind could hold such weighty matters in balance. The owner of this desk was planning military strategy on a galactic scale, rebuilding civilian trade and negotiating interplanetary treaties all at once. Toran couldn't have understood a single one of these, let alone all of them, and it was driven home that Guilliman was operating on another level entirely to a mere Astartes.

Toran's hand brushed the desk and he dared to wonder what other matters had been determined here, what galactic edicts had been set forth. This desk had seen history unfold, it was a fulcrum upon which the Imperium itself turned and Toran knew that many in his Chapter would have considered it the defining moment of their lives merely to look upon it.

Suddenly there was a weighty noise and Toran's head turned to behold the mighty form of Roboute Guilliman emerging from amongst the stacks. The Imperial Regent was still clad in his magnificent armour, wondrous in its ornate workmanship and under his right arm was a pile of leather-bound books. Toran stepped back as Roboute Guilliman marched past him, briskly sweeping his left arm over the desk before dumping the books down with a thud.

Toran was disconcerted by the indifferent treatment of the desk but that was secondary to the awe he was feeling in his hearts. Merely being in Guilliman's presence was difficult for the Primarch radiated authority and charisma. Guilliman didn't have to actually do anything, his sheer being bent the focus of any environment around him and Toran felt his gene-seed urging him to drop to his knees in adoration. Yet his augmetic eye was telling him a different story, Guilliman seemed distracted, a man with a thousand cares and not enough time to treat any of them with due attention. Toran decided to trust his augmetic eye and shoved his awe aside, shutting it away for the time being.

Guilliman spent a moment rearranging his books then finally turned to the Captain and said, "You have set me quite the conundrum."

Toran swallowed nervously but tried to reply firmly, "For that I offer apologies, I never wanted to add to your burdens."

Guilliman peered down at the diminutive Astartes and remarked, "You seem to think I care for your feelings on the matter, you are impudent."

Toran replied, "Well, you were trying to destroy my Chapter."

Guilliman's eyes narrowed and he uttered, "Most insolent, you are addressing a superior officer and you have yet to acknowledge my rank."

Toran was pulled up short by that but knew he was insulting his most senior commander, an unforgivable lapse, that would have earned dire penance were he to act so before his own Chapter Master. Stiffly Toran bowed, feeling his body aching and said, "I offer humble contrition, my Lord."

Guilliman waited for Toran to rise but then his stern demeanour softened slightly and he said, "I say this not as a rebuke, the reason we are not having this conversation in a cell is that I offer you the respect your rank demands and you will offer me the same courtesy in return."

"Yes Sire," Toran replied formally.

"Acceptable," Guilliman conceded, "Now you have seven minutes to convince me to spare your Chapter, speak freely and fast."

From anyone else Toran would have taken that as an insult but Guilliman said it like a simple matter of fact, as if he had anticipated every word of the conversation and determined exactly how long it would take. Toran hastily asked, "May I ask what you have heard of us?"

Guilliman replied smoothly, "That you were religious zealots, preaching to the masses and spreading twisted creeds far and wide."

Toran lowered his gaze and said, "I cannot deny such practices once blighted our order. We idolised you and Him on Terra, we sought a divine connection and it led us to make egregious errors. But I must reiterate that we have abandoned such practices, we recognised the flaws in our doctrines and shed blood to put a stop to them. We seek only martial excellence now."

Guilliman snorted, "I heard similar platitudes after Monarchia."

"Monarchia?" Toran asked.

Guilliman sighed, "So much is lost. Very well, for your education, the destruction of Monarchia was a rebuke upon the XVII Legion for their zealotry, a slap on the wrist to bring the Word Bearers back into line. At the time I thought it was too harsh a punishment, but given what happened later I see it was far too lenient. We should have eradicated the rabid zealots as soon as we realised what they were."

Toran mused, "No wonder you reacted so vehemently against the Storm Heralds."

Guilliman's lip curled, "Superstition and zealotry are parasitic blights upon the human mind. The compulsion to absolve all responsibility for an action by invoking a higher power, the idea that any crime can be excused because a God wills it, must end. Humanity needs to accept the burden of its own choices, to take responsibility for what they choose to do."

Toran conceded, "I understand, the zealots in our ranks craved power, to them faith was nothing but an excuse for their desire to rule over others. They cared nothing for the wisdom of the Codex Astartes. Honourable Ajax proclaimed they spat upon the teachings of the Emperor, even as they deified him. They made the man more important than the message."

Angrily Guilliman growled, "I could hardly believe it when I woke to find this bloated caricature of the Imperium. We built our empire upon hope and reason but this rotten carcass knows only fear and ignorance. It is a sham and the existence of the Ecclesiarchy is the worst insult of all. Mankind must be broken of its superstitious nature; it is a weight around our ankle. We all grasped the theoretical, but the practical was flawed, the Imperial Truth was inadequate. It tore out the dogma but offered no stable substitute, the drift back into zealotry was inevitable. I will break this Imperium of its ignorance, but I will do so correctly, I will not repeat the mistakes of the past. Humanity is currently dependent on the Imperial Creed, I cannot simply rip it out so I will wean them off slowly, but I will not tolerate proselytising among the Astartes."

Toran drew in a breath and said, "But what about…"

Yet Guilliman overrode him, "Your next question is going to be about the Emperor… which I will not answer."

Toran swallowed his question and swiftly covered by saying, "Actually I was going to ask, what changed your mind during our duel?"

Guilliman eyes focussed and he said, "Everybody greets me with awe, but once they get past that they all want something. Everybody thinks to use me to further their own agenda, they seek to make me tool of their ambition. I will not have it, I am my own man. I chose my own fate, not politicians, not Cawl or Yvraine or Eldrad Ulthran… nor your feuding Chapter. I am not a rasp, to be used at a whim."

Toran sensed there was a lot more than that to Guilliman's ire, but decided to let the matter lie. He changed the subject saying, "I imagine your mercy caused you problems."

Guilliman drew in a breath and explained, "Actually Hellbrecht was impressed, he sees my choice as the wisdom of a fair and just lord, one who respects the Lex Imperialis. He has conceded several key issues to me."

Toran frowned as he said, "But if you have gone through with the sham trial, if you had killed me…"

Guilliman replied briskly, "Then Hellbrecht would have come to fear me, as a master who is willing to carry out his threats. Either way, he learns to obey."

Toran was disconcerted by the cold response but dared to venture, "Ultimately the Storm Herald's fate meant nothing to you?"

Guilliman smiled coldly, "You sound concerned, but this was nothing. Some of the High Lords had second thoughts after I left Terra. They sent their attack dogs, the Minotaurs, to humble me. You should have seen what I did to Asterion Moloc; he will threaten me no more."

There it was, Toran thought, under that cool exterior Roboute Guilliman hid an extravagant and burning anger, a wroth that could burn worlds bare. Toran knew he was pushing his luck but dared to propose, "It seems you need more allies, true ones, who will obey wholeheartedly and without an agenda."

Guilliman eyed him and hissed, "You think you are that important?"

Toran hastily elaborated, "Imagine it, a supposedly heretical Chapter kneeling to your authority and swearing fealty for all to see."

"Your leader would do so?" Guilliman inquired, "Without an agenda of his own?"

Toran replied, "Every single Storm Herald would gladly fight an army of foes for the chance to swear undying fealty unto you."

"It would certainly silence many dissenting voices," Guilliman mused then eyed him and said, "You are a clever one, much like Cato."

Toran stiffened as he muttered, "I think I've just been insulted."

Guilliman let slip a grin and said, "Ah, he gave you the condescending treatment, did he? He always does that to people he doesn't like. He is a shameless self-publicist, but both of you remind me of a young upstart I once knew, impudent, free-thinking, and willing to look beyond conventional doctrine."

Toran frowned and asked in confusion, "Who was that?"

"I am surprised you don't know, you are wearing his sword," Guilliman replied, "Give it to me."

Toran gasped at the revelation and automatically drew the Sword of Thiel; he reverently handed it over and watched as the Primarch examined it. Guilliman peered at the sword and commented, "This has been reforged one hundred and eleven times since I last saw it, I can see the smith's marks, yet it remains my old electro-magnetic longsword."

Toran swallowed as he beheld Guilliman holding the sword and quietly wondered what this meant for its legacy. He dared to say, "Legend tells us that you gifted it to the hero Aeonid Thiel, after the Battle of Calth."

"Gifted?" Guilliman mused, "A polite way of putting it, I seem to recall him breaking into my trophy collection and helping himself, along with a rather fine Friction Axe I never got back. Still, he put it to good use and I made him my Second Captain for his unorthodox strategies."

Toran was stunned by the revelation and asked, "Do you want it back?"

Guilliman moved slightly to one side and performed a series of practice routines, sweeping the blade precisely through the air with astonishing speed and precision. He included a perfect reenactment of Toran's surprise stroke, spinning the blade hand over hand with an elegance none could have matched. Toran watched in awe, memorising every motion, so he could practice them later.

Guilliman finished with a flourish before handing the Sword of Thiel back saying, "I think it has found a proper bearer. Aeonid would be proud; you have his noble spirit and unfortunately his impudence too."

Toran accepted the blade with reverence and asked, "Does that mean you have made your choice?"

Firmly Guilliman stated, "I have chosen to let you serve me. The Navigators tell me the Warp storm has cleared; the Crusade departs within the day. The Macragge's Honour shall continue to Tectum, for a desperately needed refit, but I shall take a cruiser to your homeworld. I shall spend three days on Lujan II, no more, no less. You shall sail ahead and inform your Chapter Master that he is to prepare to pledge me his eternal fealty."

Toran bowed deeply and said, "Sire, you say that like it is some form of punishment but it is all we have ever wanted."

Guilliman nodded slightly then commanded, "Go forth and see it done."

"My lord," Toran answered as he bowed deeply. He sheathed the Sword of Thiel as he walked out of the Scriptorium but inside he was quivering. The Primarch was going to visit Lujan II and he knew his Brothers would be ecstatic at the news. He marched out confidently, but in the back of his mind he did wonder how he was going to explain everything that had happened once he got home.


	45. Chapter 45

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 45**

His opponent was fast and strong and he boasted enough experience to know how to handle a blade. The other kept his guard low, giving nothing away, as he warily circled to the right. Primaris Lieutenant Smyth copied his movements, matching step for step as he held his sword out before him. The pair kept their distance as they looked for an opening, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Suddenly the other attacked, bounding forward in an attempt to take him by surprise. Smyth wasn't caught off guard however; he lifted his blade and blocked the oncoming thrust as he twisted to the right. The other reacted smoothly, trying to bring his blade into play but Smyth's left elbow fell upon the wrist and knocked the blow away. Smyth tried to lunge with his own sword but his opponent threw himself aside and the blow missed.

Smyth grimaced, but wasted not a moment to follow up, lashing out again in a horizontal strike. Yet the other dropped beneath the swipe and came back with a lunge at his exposed guts. Smyth was forced to step back, lest the blade tear his exposed skin apart, but as he did so he reversed his sword's momentum, swinging it down in a backhanded fashion. It was a poor blow but the edge of the metal managed to catch his opponent across the shoulder and tore a deep furrow into it, letting thick transhuman blood flow.

Smyth grinned at the sight and jumped back crying, "First blood!"

Sergeant Yones paused at that, sweat covering his brow as he glanced at his shoulder and conceded, "Your win, well-done Lieutenant."

Smyth accepted his defeated friend's accolade as he lowered his blade and stood up straight. The pair of them were in the sparring hall of their Unit's barracks, clad only in short shrifts as they practised their techniques. All around them other Primaris Marines paired off in the duelling circles to hone their melee skills. It was a smelly and noisy environment, filled with the stench of perspiration and the grunting of warriors as they traded blows. Yet Smyth couldn't help but note how few of them were left, the losses on Inerus had devastated this unit and only a fraction of their original strength remained, rebuilding the ranks would be a slow and laborious undertaking.

Smyth wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, smearing off the sweat as he said, "That's five wins each, shall we go again?"

Yones shook his head and replied, "Morning drills will end in five minutes, we should prepare for the midday briefing."

Smyth nodded in agreement and stepped out the ring saying, "You are getting better."

Yet Yones snorted, "No I am not, you're struggling with that new blade."

Smyth glanced down at the sword in his hand, deactivated and inert in his grip. It was Kieva's old sword, the Martian blade he had used for so long. The plasteel of the blade was tinged blue and bore the stamp of the weapons-wrights of Anseris Mons. It was a functional blade, hefty and robust, yet it was not a patch on the relic sword he had been previously wielding. This sword was missing a cross guard and the hilt was only big enough to grip in one hand, it was also shorter, lacking the reach of his previous weapon. Smyth was galled to admit it but he had been a deadlier warrior with the relic blade, without it he was less than he had been.

However, Smyth refused to admit such a thing and deflected, "I will adapt, I just need to practice more."

Yones lifted an eyebrow and inquired, "So you don't regret giving the Sword of whatsisname back?"

"No," Smyth lied, "I'd have had that insufferable Sergeant Orath hounding me everywhere, bleating on about his mongrel Chapter's honour. Frankly, anything that hastens getting rid of the Storm Heralds is welcome."

Yones nodded, "I know what you mean, this whole debacle has been a blot on our record. Ever since we ran into the Storm Heralds nothing has gone right, bad luck follows them like a plume of exhaust and that scum Megaro played us for fools."

Smyth heard the words but he wasn't sure how he felt about them. He could remember the battle with the Traitor Chaplain and yet the details were hazy in his mind. Odd, a Primaris should have perfect recoil, so why was it all so vague? Smyth could see Megaro in his mind's eye, laughing as he revelled in his treachery and boasting about his many crimes. Smyth could remember the battle and he could recall the Traitor cutting down Captain Kieva in the frenzy of the melee, before falling himself. It was all right there in his mind, so why did it make him unsettled? It was like an itch in his head that wouldn't go away, nagging at his serenity and making him doubt his own sanity.

Yones noticed his distress and asked, "What's the matter?"

Smyth shook his head and said, "I dwell upon the death of poor Kieva, it is still raw in my hearts."

"Aye," Yones agreed, "Kieva may have died nobly, but to lose a Commander is hard on any unit. We still don't know who is to replace him."

"Yes…" Smyth muttered but then he realised his fists were clenched tightly, knuckles whitening at the mere mention of Kieva's name. It wasn't a voluntary action; his fists seemed to be clenching of their own volition. What was wrong with him, he wondered, why was he acting this way?

Yones however grinned and said, "Maybe you'll be promoted, Captain Smyth."

"Who knows," Smyth demurred, thankful of the distraction.

Suddenly there was a commotion at the door and he spied an armoured Primaris officer entering the hall. Everybody froze as the officer entered and he called, "Form up!"

Hurriedly everybody fell into line, Smtyh grabbing his sheath and buckling it to his hip as he stood straight before the newcomer. He was clad in Mark X armour but his face wasn't one the Lieutenant recognised, yet he had enough scars to attest to being from a front-line unit. Smyth read his identifier emblems and realised this was a Primaris Captain, of XIIIth Legion stock. The Captain was stern and disapproving, facing the line of Primaris as they saluted him with perfect precision. The Captain spent a moment reviewing the group then announced, "Hail, I am Captain Jemiel and I am here to issue you new orders."

Smyth as the most senior Primaris of the unit asked, "Sir, are you our new Captain?"

"In a way," Jemiel answered, "There's no easy way to say this, but this unit is to be disbanded."

Gasps arose at that and Smyth uttered, "Disbanded?!"

Jemiel nodded, "Alas yes, your recent combat losses, and the death of your commander, have made this unit non-viable. The Lord Commander has determined that you shall be broken up and used to reinforce understrength Divisions of the Unnumbered Sons."

Smyth was aghast to hear that, true the Crusade had a fluid structure, units were often reorganised, merged or reformed as combat took its toll but to be disbanded entirely was a harsh blow to their pride. All the Brothers who had formed close bonds would be scattered, sent to fight alongside strangers and many would never see their close friends ever again. A protest battered at Smyth's lips but he held his silence, such was life for a Primaris Marine, the order had come from the Lord Commander and to question orders was inconceivable.

Jemiel was still talking, "All Brothers not of XIIIth Legion stock are to return to their billets, where you will find your new assignments posted in your dormitories. Collect your armour and gear and report to your new barracks within two hours. The others will stay here."

Curious stares passed between the Primaris as they separated into two camps. The majority left promptly, glancing back over their shoulders as they departed. The remaining Transhumans, twenty-four from the blood of Roboute Guilliman, waited anxiously to learn what was happening.

Jemiel looked over them and announced, "I know this is unconventional but I have received new orders. We are to be reassigned."

Yones sounded confused as he said, "Sir? What do you mean?"

Jemiel drew himself upright and said, "The Lord Commander has welcomed a new Chapter to the Indomitus Crusade, as is his custom he intends to bestow upon them the gift of reinforcements. Primaris, all of XIIIth Legion stock, are being selected to embody his beneficence."

Smyth's hearts sank as he realised what was happening and he whispered, "Oh no… not them, anyone but them."

Jemiel either didn't hear that or chose to overlook it as he said, "Congratulations, henceforth we are all to join the Storm Heralds Chapter."

Jaws sagged as everybody took in the news and Smyth gasped, "You can't be serious."

Jemiel's eyes narrowed as he snapped, "What was that?!"

Smyth swallowed as he realised he had blurted that out loud, and hurriedly said, "Sir, with all due respect, I'm not sure they would welcome this particular unit. We are the ones who tricked them and placed them under arrest. Perhaps another unit would suit better."

Jemiel glared at them and growled, "The Lord Commander cares nothing for your opinions and neither do I. This has been decided at the highest level, we are going."

"But…" Yones interjected.

"Are you questioning orders?" Jemiel spat.

Everybody straightened up and chorused, "No Sir!"

"Good," Jemiel uttered, "The reinforcements shall consist of three hundred Primaris, mostly new-bloods fresh out of their stasis tubes. Myself, along with other Captains, Chaplains, Librarians and Apothecaries of XIIIth Legion stock, are being reassigned. We shall bring with us the latest vehicles, weapons and supporting mortal artisans but what we lack are experienced mid-ranking personnel. You shall fulfil that need and those of you of line rank shall be promoted to Sergeants, to spread your skills amongst the new-bloods. The Crusade breaks orbit even as we speak and shall make Warp-Translation in six hours. You are hereby ordered to report to landing bay seventeen in four hours, for transfer to the Storm Herald's vessel Thunderchild. I suggest you eat a quick meal and then gather your gear and prepare to greet your new Brothers. You had better make a good impression, from now on Lujan II is our new home. Dismissed."

With that Jemiel turned and strode out, leaving the dispirited Primaris in his wake. Smyth shook his head as he walked out saying, "I can't believe it."

Yones followed him out the door and said, "Of all the Chapters in the galaxy, why them?"

"I think somebody is playing a cruel jest on us," Smyth uttered morosely.

In a gaggle the twenty-four Primaris made their way to the refectory and slumped down on long benches set before wide metal tables. Yones sat across from him and said, "Maybe it won't be so bad."

Smyth eyed him and said, "Are you jesting? After what happened you think they will welcome us, they despise us as much as we loathe them. We have just been enjoined with the one Chapter in the galaxy who personally detests us."

The warriors swayed aside as a crewman placed a pair of large bowls before them, filled with a thick grey slurry. Smyth frowned as he poked the bowl and asked in befuddlement, "What's this?"

The crewman shrugged and said, "It's called Synthi-gruel, apparently it's what they eat on Lujan II. Some special concoction, filled with all the nutrients a Transhuman needs."

The mortal moved further down the table as Smyth stared aghast his meal. It sat in the bowl like a blob of wallpaper paste, thick and unappealing. Smyth dared to sniff it then recoiled saying, "Smells like engine grease, they actually eat this stuff?"

Yones lifted his bowl and said, "Think of it this way, it can't possibly be as bad as it looks."

Smyth lifted his own bowl and together they took in a mouthful, then they gagged and began coughing as Yones spluttered, "I was... I was wrong… it's even worse than it looks."

Smyth grabbed a mug of water and gulped it down saying, "No wonder… the Storm Heralds are so crazy… if this is what they have to eat every day."

Yones muttered, "I think I'd rather eat the bowl itself, it must taste better than the contents."

Smyth pushed his bowl away saying, "That settles it, this reassignment was no random draw, somebody must really want us to suffer."

Yones nodded, "Dumped on some insignificant planet in the middle of nowhere, with a Chapter we crossed, filled with warriors who loathe us. I don't know who has the worse of this deal, the Storm Heralds or us."

"Unfortunately we're all Storm Heralds now," Smyth sighed dejectedly, "I hate it already."


	46. Chapter 46

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 46**

The Fortress-Monastery dwelt among the oceans of Lujan II, an extinct volcanic island some forty miles from end to end. It was covered in defensive installations, industrial nodes and training facilities that extended far below the ground. Within its depths were the means to turn mere mortals into Space Marines and for five millennia this place had done exactly that, sending forth Astartes warriors to establish human dominance amongst the stars. It was a lonely outpost in the middle of nowhere, which was exactly how the Space Marines liked it. Nothing troubled the home of the Storm Heralds, save the world-girdling Emperor's Storm, which on this oceanic planet came as regularly as clockwork.

Falling towards the Fortress-Monastery were scores of gunships, an eclectic mix of Thunderhawk drop ships, transporter variants and other more exotic craft, unlike any that had been seen here before. They flew through layer after layer of defensive protection, tracked every inch of the way by anti-aircraft las-talons and missile batteries. Yet they broadcast the correct clearances and were permitted to descend upon a large landing field in the flatlands of the southern coast. They settled down with thuds upon their landing claws, great gusts of steam shimmering off them as re-entry fired hulls met the damp salty ocean air.

One of the Thunderhawks lowered its ramp and from the interior strode Captain Toran, his red cloak flapping in the stiff breeze. He took in the sight of his home with satisfaction while his Command Squad followed him onto the ground. Behind them came the First Company Terminators, Librarian Arvael and Honourable Ajax, his heavy treads ringing loudly.

The Librarian set foot upon the ferrocrete landing apron and breathed deeply of the briny air. Though Space Marines were made for war it was still good to be home, the Third Company's infrequent visits over the last decade stopping barely long enough to replenish the ranks, before setting off for the next crisis. It had been unavoidable, war consumed the galaxy as never before and the under-strength Storm Heralds had been hard-pressed to defend their protectorates.

Arvael knew they should welcome the prospect of reinforcements, the Primaris Marines they had brought with them should bring the Chapter to near-full strength, yet he doubted it would be that simple. The journey through the Warp had been a frigid affair, the overpacked Thunderchild crammed with Transhumans who were barely speaking to each other. Captain Toran had attempted to engage both sides with cross-training drills but the Primaris had largely kept to their own affairs. Arvael's hand fell to a leather-bound scroll-case on his belt as he considered the message it bore for Chief Librarian Echeb, from Hypras of the Grey Knights, and the weighty matter it expounded.

From other gunships Astartes and Primaris, now all in Storm Herald colours, disembarked but Arvael's attention was captured by the sight of the Masters of the Storm Heralds approaching. They were surrounded by four Honour Guards, the nameless avatars of the Chapter's highest ideals, bearing golden axes and eagle-masked faceplates. Between them strode Phalros, holder of the joint offices of Chapter Master and First Captain. His armour was glorious in its detail and he bore a Master-Crafted power fist while his features were the patrician and senatorial mien of a stern lord, one who brooked no vacillation or equivocation from those under him.

The Third Company had seen Phalros during their infrequent visits home but those beside him were another matter, faces they had not seen in a decade. To his left strode a fearsome warrior with a bulky jump pack and chipped power spear. This was Fourth Captain Hakulo, the aggressive Lord Executioner. He hailed from the secondary recruiting world of Trux and under his command the Fourth had become a byword for brutal aerial assaults. His use of orbital Drop-pod insertions had won him fearsome renown, so great that it eclipsed the devastating collateral damage that he left in his wake, after all a blood-soaked victory was still a victory.

On the right was Second Captain Cyvo, an unorthodox and cunning commander. Cyvo had been promoted following the civil war and had built a sterling reputation for armoured assaults. The Third was best-known for its infantry tactics but under Cyvo the Second was becoming synonymous with mechanised warfare. The Captain's skill with tanks was so respected he had even earned the honorific, 'Spear of Lujan.'

Last of all was Nimodes, commander of the Scout-Company and Master of Recruits, he was a wise leader who was responsible for the Storm Herald's steady recovery of their numbers. His dedication to the recruits was faultless; it was just a shame that he liked to lecture everybody like they were raw recruits who didn't know one end of a bolter from the other.

The Command Squad halted as their liege lord approached and then all bowed before him as Toran proclaimed, "Hail, my Lord."

Phalros came to a halt and he nodded as he said, "Captain Toran, welcome home."

Hakulo stepped forward and said, "Toran, you're not dead."

Toran grinned as he replied, "Hakulo, it's been too long. The Astropaths sing of your glorious victory on Camollum, your defeat of the rebellious state of Nordlund set a new record for swiftness."

But Cyvo commented, "Wasn't much left of Nordlund afterwards."

"We won't have to worry about them again," Hakulo replied coldly, "Hard to rebel when they're dead."

However Toran offered his hand to the Second Captain saying, "Cyvo, good to see you. I heard about your work on Glaeba, those Orks never stood a chance."

"Pah, it was no true Waaagh, just chopping down some weeds," Cyvo demurred as he shook wrist to wrist, "Nothing compared to what you did among the dreaming spires of Sucaris. You gave those Traitorous Word Bearer scum a bloody nose they won't soon forget."

Suddenly Nimodes interrupted to say, "If you're done, can we please discuss what the hell you have brought to our doorstep?"

Phalros concurred, "Yes, who are these strangers and why are they wearing our colours?"

Toran replied, "These are Primaris Marines, sent to reinforce our ranks. The Primarch Roboute Guilliman bids us to welcome them as long-lost Brothers."

Everybody paused at that and Hakulo murmured, "So it's true, you met him?"

"Indeed," Toran replied, "He was… not what I expected, but he is still our gene-father and has given us our orders."

Cyvo glanced at the Primaris, who were starting to unload curious vehicles and muttered, "I'm not sure this is a good idea, these strangers are not true Storm Heralds. The Forgemaster will not accept such deviant technologies, we should send them away immediately."

At that Arvael interjected, "Then perhaps you can explain that to the Primarch when he arrives."

Jaws fell at that and Nimodes gasped, "He's coming here?!"

Toran glanced at Phalros and asked, "You didn't tell them that part of my report?"

Phalros let slip a rare snort and said, "I wanted to enjoy the look upon their faces when you told them."

Hakulo looked stunned as he said, "I… I don't believe it."

Suddenly there was a rumble from above their heads and Ajax growled, "BELIEVE IT, HE IS COMING. I LOOK FORWARD TO IT; I INTEND TO HAVE WORDS WITH HIM."

Arvael gulped, for Ajax's anger at the Storm Heralds' treatment had been incandescent. At first Arvael had been glad to see Ajax so focused and in the present, but he didn't like the tone of his words and the Librarian dared to ask, "You're not going to do anything… rash, are you?"

But Ajax rumbled, "THAT DEPENDS ON HOW WILLING HE IS TO APOLOGISE. I INTEND TO EXPRESS OUR DISPLEASURE, USING MY POWER FIST IF NECESSARY."

Cyvo frowned as he said, "I… I don't understand. What happened?"

"YOUNG TORAN WILL FILL YOU IN WHILE I WAIT FOR HIS ARRIVAL IN THE FORGES," Ajax growled then tilted his sensor dome as he said, "CHAPTER MASTER."

Phalros nodded in respect as Ajax stormed off and Arvael's hearts sank as he imagined how that conversation was going to go. Meanwhile Cyvo looked confused as he said, "What was that about?"

Hakulo's eyes narrowed and he muttered, "Toran… have you been causing headaches again?"

Arvael hastily stepped in to say, "We were waylaid by the last of the True Believers. Things got… heated, but they were satisfactorily resolved."

Phalros lowered his gaze and whispered, "I read your report, so Megaro is truly gone. I held out hope he would return to us but he fell to Chaos in the end."

Arvael felt a twist in his guts at the falsehoods he had woven but his lips said, "Yes, he was executed for Heresy."

Suddenly Toran spoke up, "I will explain everything later, but for now we must greet our new Brothers."

Then Arvael saw a knot of Primaris Marine approaching, led by the scarred officer he had come to know as Captain Jemiel. With him were a dozen Lieutenants, two more Captains, three Chaplains in long hooded cloaks, three Apothecaries, three Techmarines and three Librarians. Arvael eyed the foreign Psykers and knew they would have to be presented to Chief Librarian Echeb but he passed over that as he spied Lieutenant Smyth among the officers. Arvael had been keeping an eye upon him during the journey; Smyth seemed confused as to why he had been selected for reassignment but Arvael knew exactly why. It had been no random draw that Smyth's unit was sent here, Hypras had been pulling strings behind the scene and Arvael had been issued specific instructions regarding him and Sergeant Yones and Orath too.

The assembly came to halt before the Masters, clearly not impressed with their new home, their cool disdain written all over their features. Jemiel looked down his nose at the shorter Astartes and announced, "I am Primaris Captain Jemiel."

Toran replied, "May I present Chapter Master Phalros."

Jemiel stated icily, "Phalros."

But Hakulo growled, "Chapter Master Phalros to you."

Jemiel looked like he had swallowed a lemon but stiffly bowed to his new lord, as did the rest of the Primaris and he said formally, "Chapter Master, we greet you in the name of the Omnissiah. By command of the Imperial Regent we are instructed to reinforce you. We place ourselves under your authority and pledge allegiance to the Storm Heralds, our blades are at your service and our lives are yours to spend as you deem fit."

Phalros waited for a second to impart his authority then replied, "Rise and be welcome among us, I give you my word that your service will be honoured and your blood spent only for the worthiest of causes. There will be formal ceremonies and rituals of induction later on but for now I accept your word as your bond of fealty."

Jemiel did an impressive job keeping a sneer off his face but Arvael knew he was scornful as he said, "Ah yes, I was told to expect… rituals."

"I see our reputation gives you pause," Phalros uttered, "But know that I suffer not Emperor-worship in our ranks, you will see for yourself that we are a beacon of secular reason and martial excellence. The Storm Heralds are first and foremost a warrior order, what traditions we have are solely to bind us together in Brotherhood and to affirm our loyalty to Him on Terra."

The Primaris visibly relaxed and Jemiel replied, "That is reassuring, the Primarch will be pleased to hear my report, he has requested regular updates on the integration of our forces and doctrines."

The implication was lost on nobody; Jemiel was telling them that these Primaris Marines weren't here solely to reinforce the Storm Heralds, they were Roboute Guilliman's watchdogs, sent to make sure the Chapter conformed to his ideals. They would be inside the ranks, keeping a watchful eye upon all that occurred and were they not to like what they beheld… well, things could get difficult.

Phalros drew in a breath and stated, "Indeed, we have two weeks until his transport arrives, time enough to discuss our order of battle. In the meantime come with me and let us find quarters for our new Brothers."

Jemial nodded and said, "My thanks, I have three hundred Primaris Marines who need barracking."

With that the group set off together. As they walked Arvael noticed Orath creeping closer to Smyth and heard him whisper, "Don't get too comfortable, you and I will be seeing each other every day from now on."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Lieutenant Smyth concurred in a subtle snub, "I will be sure to remember that."

Arvael watched them walk side by side, mutual loathing radiating off the pair. His hand brushed the scroll case upon his belt and he knew he had to report to Chief Librarian Echeb immediately. Hypras had made clear why he had arranged for Smyth and the others to be sent here, but secretly Arvael hoped he wouldn't have to enact these contingency orders. It really would be a shame if he had to eliminate the witnesses, should their altered memories fail and their real recollection of events return to them.


	47. Chapter 47

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 47**

"So tell me, at exactly what point did it occur to you to consult the rest of the Chapter before swearing away our allegiance?" The question hung over Toran's head like a ponderous weight, just waiting to fall. The Captain heard the underlying accusation laced into the words and he swallowed before replying, "There was no time to send a message."

Chapter Master Phalros glared disapprovingly, filling the grand council chamber with a pointed silence. The Storm Herald's Masters were gathered beneath a beautiful domed roof, sitting in an open circle of chairs. Around the circle the existing Captains sat, along with the personage of Chief Librarian Echeb. To one side was Furion, the title Master of Sanctity was in disgrace, but tradition held a Chaplain must be present. Similarly Memnos spoke for the Apothecaries, no one was happy with that arrangement but there were none among them whom did not share his disgrace. Finally a red-clad Hevostan spoke for the Techmarines, the Forgemaster was unable to leave his communion with the Machine Spirits and so entrusted his equerry to speak for him.

Toran looked upon the gathering and hesitantly explained, "The Primarch was given cause to doubt our loyalty, recent events cast us in the worst light. I had to convince him our fidelity was unimpeachable."

Tenth Captain Nimodes hissed accusingly, "So you took it upon yourself to promise him eternal fealty?!"

Toran felt angry gazes boring into him but then Furion intervened, "You weren't there, Toran was the man on the spot and he averted disaster. Beside this is a moot point, do not all our doctrines demand deference to Guilliman's teachings and personage?"

Phalros nodded sagely and said, "Furion speaks wisely, are there any present who would not wholeheartedly serve our gene-father?"

Heads nodded begrudgingly but Captain Hakulo muttered, "Still, it would have been nice to have been asked first."

Phalros ignored that and proclaimed, "The order of the day is what to do with these Primaris reinforcements."

Echeb went first saying, "I have met the new Librarians, they seem stalwart and wise. Physically they are Primaris, but the scope of their powers is no different to our own."

But Cyvo spoke up, "I am uncomfortable with these strangers. They are not Storm Heralds, they wear our colours but they do not share our history. They have not undertaken our rituals nor studied our philosophies; they have not been tested by the Emperor's Storm."

However Furion countered, "We can teach them our traditions and history, I have spoken to their Chaplains and they are eager to learn our customs. In time these Primaris will become true Brothers. We certainly could use the reinforcements; we stand only at half-strength."

Phalros conceded, "We already have sufficient numbers to create a Fifth Company, I was considering several First Company Veterans for the role. Brothers Raxilious, Scico and Daltos would all make worthy Captains but they will have to wait, these Primaris have brought Captains of their own."

Suddenly Hevostan interjected, "The order of Techmarines protests this most vehemently. The Forgemaster will not allow these deviant outsiders into the shrines, we refuse them entry!"

Phalros glanced at him and stated icily, "Are you defying the Primarch's will?"

Yet Hevostan refused to back down and said, "The Omnissiah entrusted us with the purity of the Machine Spirits, invention and innovation are Heresy."

Stonily Phalros growled, "The Forgemaster is yet under the authority of the Chapter Master' office and I am issuing a direct order to accommodate these newcomers. Defy me and I will have your entire order don the Chains of Shame."

There was a moment of hissing from Hevostan's vox unit then he lowered his head and said, "The Forgemaster bows before the authority of the Chapter Master, we will allow their Techmarines into our shrines… but we will not allow these Primaris to touch our blessed Land Raiders or Terminator suits."

Phalros accepted the concession and turned his head away calling, "Then it is settled, the Primaris will join the Storm Heralds. Kinsmen, come forth!"

From the far end of the chambers came the ringing of boots and Toran saw Captain Jemiel approaching, the Primaris officer looked as stern as ever, but with him were two more Captains, looking far younger and less scarred by war. Jemiel bowed before the gathering and said, "My lord, may I present Captains Rayenk and Apodis."

The pair bowed deeply and Phalros nodded saying, "Be welcome among us, we are about to discuss what posts you shall receive."

Jemiel straightened up and said, "I shall accept the office of First Captain."

Everybody started in surprise and Toran felt shocked by the presumption. To be the First Captain was to be the Chapter Master's right hand, second in command of the Chapter and his presumptive heir, subject to election. It would place Jemiel above the other Captains, entrenching him firmly in the highest offices.

Hakulo's voice rose a notch as he growled, "You think to lord over us, you callow pup!"

Jemiel kept his head high as he uttered "I assure you I am no untested boy. I have fought at the forefront of the Crusade, commanding thousands of men and Primaris. My appointment was carefully considered."

Hakulo sneered, "Why you…"

But Jemiel briskly pulled a scroll from his armoured belt and said, "Perhaps this will settle the matter."

Phalros took it cautiously and unfurled it, then proclaimed, "This is written by the hand of Roboute Guilliman himself: he recommends Jemiel as a fitting First Captain and claims that no officer could be more worthy. So shall it be: This this is his will and there shall be no hint of vacillation or equivocation in our execution of his bidding."

All protests died for none could dare to speak out against the direct order and Toran eyed his new First Captain telling himself this was merely a rough start and things would get better. Phalros waved Jemiel to sit down beside him, and the new First Captain did so while the other two officers took lesser seats. Phalros waited for all to settle down then said, "Let us now discuss how we shall adapt to our new reality."

Memnos went next saying, "I have analysed the data we have been provided. The Primaris gene-seed is most radical, I do not fully grasp its secrets. Everything I thought I knew tells me they should be crippled by rampant mutations yet they are completely stable."

"So are we able to produce our own Primaris Marines?" asked Furion.

Memnos' sighed, "Alas the new gene-seed is extremely challenging and resource demanding to implement. Currently we will struggle to produce more than a handful of Primaris per year."

"I thought the process was faster than conventional recruitment," Nimodes commented.

"It is not a question of speed but of resources and manpower," explained Memnos, "Our facilities are inadequate and training enough serfs will take significant time."

Hevostan added, "It is not only biological issues that trouble us, the new wargear and vehicles are… most unconventional. As it stands our forges will struggle to maintain the equipment we have received, let alone manufacture new examples."

First Captain Jemiel frowned and said, "Many exclusively Primaris Chapters are already extant in the galaxy."

Hevostan gave him a stern look and said, "Chapters who will undoubtedly be calling upon the hallowed Forgeworlds of the Mechanicus far more frequently than the Archmagi will find agreeable."

Phalros grimaced and said, "So, with only our own serf-artisans available, how long would it take us to transfer to exclusive Primaris recruitment?"

Hevostan's eyes flickered as his internal cogitators ran simulations then he said, "Given unlimited access to resources: thirty years, but factoring in the restrictions of Imperial Tithes, a hundred."

Jemiel interrupted angrily, "A century?! That is intolerable!"

Yet Phalros cut him off with a raised gauntlet and said, "Let us consider this from a perspective of status, what can we do with our present facilities?"

Hevostan declared, "If we undertake an immediate upgrade to our Forges and Apothecarion, I estimate we can create one Primaris for every two Astartes, though that ratio will rise as we continue to expand our capacity."

Phalros nodded in acceptance and uttered, "Perhaps that is for the best, we can phase in new recruits gradually."

Jemiel bristled as he protested, "You wish to continue to use inferior gene-seed?"

Toran felt his resentment surge but Phalros uttered, "Proven and reliable gene-stock, I am still unconvinced that this Primaris paradigm is as reliable as some claim. I will not entrust the future of this Chapter to unproven technologies. We will continue our regular induction, alongside a small trial run of Primaris induction. Once we are certain there are no unforeseen issues then we shall start employing Primaris gene-seed more widely."

Furion added, "I recommend that candidates be drawn by blind lot from among our aspirants. There can be no hint of favouritism or elitism; all must know the first generation of Primaris is no different from our regular recruits."

"Agreed," Phalros said, "For the foreseeable future the Storm Heralds will be a hybrid Chapter, we will revisit this issue again when the first recruitment trail is complete. Now we must consider how to fit our newly arrived Brothers into the ranks, how does the Lord Guilliman typically integrate reinforcements into existing Chapters?"

Jemiel still didn't look happy but he answered, "The Imperial Regent is vague on the matter, usually he allows each Chapter to find its own solution."

Captain Cyvo commented, "We currently have only three active Battle Companies and the Primaris are experienced as fighting as a unit, we could simply add their forces to the battle roster."

Thoughtfully Toran suggested, "All our Marines who are not assigned to a Battle Company are either in the First Company or are Scouts, we currently have no Reserve Companies."

Testily Hakulo argued, "We have no Fifth Company and you are suggesting raising the banners of the Reserve Companies?"

Yet Furion suddenly leaned forward and spat, "No, that will not do, we cannot divide this Chapter into two. Having Astartes Battle Companies and Primaris Reserves would promote resentment and antipathy. Our first act must be to eradicate any differences between the two variants of Transhuman. All must face the same dangers and reap equal laurels or this Chapter will tear itself apart."

Nimodes agreed, "Too right, we'd have another civil war within a solar year."

But Hakulo muttered, "We've only just gone through one major reformation and now you want to tear it all down again?"

Yet Echeb added his voice, "Chaplain Furion has the right of it, this would create feuding camps, shattering any sense of Brotherhood. We must reform our echelons, break up the established order, reorganise the ranks and make sure there is a thorough mix of Astartes and Primaris at every level."

Jemiel frowned and said, "But that would be suboptimal; Primaris have been trained in specific tactics and warfare. To expect them to conform to outdated models of Tactical, Assault and Devastator Squads would be a poor use of their skills."

Hakulo scowled at the dismissive comment but Phalros countered, "Primaris Marines shall continue to fight in their new squad types but we will mix the Companies. We will simply have to learn the necessary tactics to use all types effectively."

Furion concurred, "We must all learn to accept this change, as the Primaris have to study our traditions and philosophies, so must we come to appreciate their new ideas and weapons."

Cautiously Nimodes remarked, "We would be learning a new stratagem of warfare, that will take precious time, we will not be able to fight a war until the Companies have been retrained."

Yet Echeb pointed out, "The Saint Karyl Trail is swarming with Imperial forces, the Indomitus Crusade has inundated the area. For the first time in history our protectorates are secure, we can afford a few months to adjust to our new reality."

Phalros mused, "Very well, Jemiel will take First Company in hand, Apodis will undertake to create a new Fifth Company and Rayenk will lead the Sixth Company. To ensure our regular Brothers do not feel diminished by this I will promote three First Company veterans to lead Seventh, Eighth and Ninth Companies. For the first time in years, we shall return to full-strength."

Toran wasn't sure this was the best idea and Jemiel didn't look convinced either, but Phalros had made his decision and none could argue with him. Thus the Chapter Master declared firmly, "So shall it be, I want our new Company structure in place before the Primarch arrives. Now let us discuss exactly how to divide up our squads to ensure a good mix of veteran warriors at every level."


	48. Chapter 48

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 48**

The Third Company waited in straight rows, each Space Marine standing rigidly to attention. They were an uneven mix, the new Primaris warriors looming a clear head over their Astartes comrades. The two orders of Transhuman were merged to create the impression of solidarity, but anyone with eyes could detect the tension brewing between them. The Astartes resented these interlopers while the Primaris kept themselves aloof. In the midst of that Lieutenant Smyth kept his chin up, eyes fixed forward. He was wearing his Mark X Tacticus plate, which was now a far deeper shade of blue than it had been before. His pauldrons were storm cloud grey and on his shoulder was the icon of a spiral in a starburst, while his right knee boasted a stylised '3'. The Lieutenant was facing his new commander, who was addressing the Third Company at some length.

Captain Toran stood before the assembled ranks, his cloak hanging limp in the still air of the barrack's main communal hall but he bore his Relic sword with pride. Toran's augmetic eye shone red and his golden rank chains gleamed, an impressive sight to most but Smyth found it a touch gaudy, but then all of the old Chapters seemed to delight in bestowing themselves laurels. Then he reminded himself that he was now a member of such a Chapter and would probably be expected to cover his own plate in decorations.

His attention was dragged back as Toran summarised, "Therefore we will be undertaking a series of simulated battles against Fourth Company, to practice operating as a cohesive unit. Make no mistake there will be much to learn, those of you who are new must adapt to our ways, yet those of you who have been here a long time should not believe yourselves all-knowing. There is a new tactical doctrine available, the Codex Imperialis, and we shall become familiar with it in the coming exercises. We will be running practice drills after the midday repast, all of you are to report to the Veltri memorial assault course in three hours but first, Chaplain Furion shall address you."

The tall Chaplain stepped forward and Smyth had to remind himself Furion was no Primaris, so tall was he, but he said, "I know many of you are wary of these changes, you do not understand why this has happened. Yet know that we are all Storm Heralds, from this day until the day we die. We shall no doubt struggle to adapt, that is to be expected, but only by acting as one can we rise above our flaws. There shall be no favouritism in our assessments of your performance, every one of one will be judged solely on merit and know that any Marine whom gives less than their absolute best... shall be flogged."

The Astartes chuckled under their breaths as if sharing an old joke but Smyth didn't get it, yet Toran declared, "You have three hours to study the basics of our new doctrines, learn them well, I expect the Third to send Fourth Company scurrying with their tail between their legs. Dismissed."

With that the ranks broke up, the various squads heading deeper into the barracks. Smyth found himself drifting closer to Sergeant Yones and he was glad the Intercessor had been assigned to the Third, at least there would be one face he knew around here.

Smyth nodded as they stood shoulder to shoulder and asked, "Sergeant, how are your new Intercessors?"

"Raw," Yones replied, "Fresh out of their stasis-tubes and still wet with factory oil. None of them has seen a real war and I'm expected to whip them into shape. I miss my old squadmates."

"Agreed," Smyth sighed, "Their deaths were a tragedy, as was Ingvis'."

"At least we avenged them," Yones spat, "That scum Megaro paid in blood."

"Yes…" Smyth replied with a hesitancy that surprised him, "Yes… the Traitor was killed. That's right isn't it?"

Yones however stole a glance at his shoulder and said, "You know, I still can't get used to that symbol."

Smyth shook off the moment of doubt and agreed, "It does seem wrong to be wearing these colours."

"What is it actually supposed to be?" Yones asked, "What does it symbolise?"

"I don't know," Smyth confessed, "Most Chapters have something aggressive, a predator, a fist or a sea serpent. But this spiral is confusing."

Yones sighed deeply and said, "This whole place is strange, have you seen the defences? Interior and exterior macro-weaponry, who are they expecting to shoot at, themselves?"

Smyth explained, "I heard this island was invaded some twenty years ago. They… that is we… redesigned the Fortress-Monastery so anybody setting foot on dry ground could be obliterated in a heartbeat."

"That explains a lot," Yones muttered, "Most of the buildings look like they were thrown up in a hurry, but the oldest ones are covered in murals and frescos."

Smyth shook his head and said, "Come on, we should hurry, we want to make the most of the daylight."

"Don't worry about that," Yones said, "Apparently sunset isn't for another three days, Terran standard."

Smyth frowned, "This planet is getting stranger and stranger, days last over a Terran week. It's mostly covered in oceans and apparently there's a big storm that lies on the terminus, everybody seems to be really obsessed with it."

Yones muttered, "Rumour has it they expect us to strip off our armour and stand on the battlements when it comes, a test of purity or something like that. Astartes and their nonsensical rituals, it's almost as bad as their ramblings about the Sword of whatshisname. I thought the Adepts of Mars were peculiar but this is farcical."

Suddenly Smyth felt a gust of air behind him and spun about in shock. Standing right behind the pair, hidden by the bulk of their backpacks, was an Astartes with a heavily scarred face. It was one of the Command Squad, Jediah, and he had a predatory gleam in his eyes as he stared up at them. Smyth was taller than he but still felt uncomfortable with how close the warrior had gotten before they noticed his approach, close enough to ram a blade into their backs had he desired.

Yones was less restrained and blurted out, "Red Sands! Don't do that."

Jediah wasn't blinking as he stared at them but he uttered, "The Captain wants a word with Smyth."

"Lieutenant Smyth," the Primaris corrected, "Is this how you respect an officer?"

"Never had a Lieutenant before," Jediah stated coldly, "You don't fit right; you'll have to show us what you can do, if you want respect."

Then he turned on his heel and strode away without waiting for permission. Smyth sighed and left Yones behind as he made his way across the barracks, headed for his new Captain's chambers. He passed various squads on his way, getting glances ranging from curiosity to outright hostility but none approached him. Soon he reached Toran's door and knocked only to be greeted with, "Enter!"

Smyth stepped within and found a large chamber, eerily similar to the officer's quarters he had known in the Crusade, the Imperium's suffocating standardisation extending even here. Yet there were a few differences, the walls were made of bare stone, not metal bulkheads, the workbench bore a Godwyn pattern bolter and in one corner a reliquary contained the Relic Sword he had previously wielded. Smyth turned his eyes away from the blade with some reluctance and faced Toran, who was sitting behind a desk piled high with scrolls and reports.

Smyth went to make the sign of the cog but caught himself at the last second and hurriedly changed it to the Aquila as he said, "Captain, reporting as ordered."

Toran organic eye twitched as he caught the gaff but he waved for Smyth to sit down and said, "My thanks for your swift response, I thought it best we talked before the Company starts its drills."

Smyth settled into a reinforced chair, his armour purring as it adjusted his pauldrons and he asked, "Sir, what do you want to talk about?"

Toran leaned back and laced his digits together as he said thoughtfully, "It is no secret this change has come abruptly and ruffled many feathers. I was fortunate enough to be able to select the squads I would keep, but the Third has just seen two Tactical squads, an Assault and a Devastator squad torn from their ranks and sent to join the Reserves."

Smyth pointed out, "You gain twenty Intercessors, five Hellblasters, three Aggressors, six Inceptors and ten Reivers. You will find they more than make up for the loss."

"I am aware of our order of battle," Toran said icily, "That was not my point, long-formed bonds of friendship and Brotherhood have been torn apart. The Initiates have seen their comrades replaced and frankly the new Primaris are not making much of an effort to fit in."

Smyth sighed at that and said, "We must appear a little haughty."

"Arrogant is the word I would use," Toran snapped, "And condescending."

Smyth looked at his hands and said, "You don't understand, this is how we act when we are trying not to show our sorrow."

"You are putting on a brave face?" Toran inquired.

"Permission to speak freely?" Smyth requested and when he got a nod elaborated, "We all knew the day would come when we would be assigned to other forces, we'd seen it happen often enough to others. Yet to be part of the Crusade was the most epic undertaking that we would ever know. Even for rear-line units there was a sense of destiny in the air, that with the Lord Guilliman leading us we could save the galaxy itself. Now we struggle with the absence of that purpose, with the idea that we are less than we were before."

"That I understand," Toran allowed, "Despite everything that happened, meeting the Primarch was the most single most important event of my life. I find I have to remind myself that, to him, it was probably nothing save a dull, dreary afternoon. He will arrive in little over a week but I know he will not linger, he will move on, probably never to return and that is sorrow I never anticipated."

Smyth was surprised to hear that and said, "I did not expect you to share our pain... perhaps we have more in common than I knew."

Toran eyed him and asked, "Do you know why I asked for you to be assigned to the Third?"

Smyth frowned as he asked, "I am unsure, given what happened between us I thought you would send me to some other Company."

Toran breathed in deeply and there was a sad look in his eye as he said, "I have learned to my cost that bad-blood cannot be ignored. A grudge left to fester will go rotten, bitterness and loathing feeding upon each other until there is no memory of Brotherhood left and loyalty becomes only ashes. I intend to lance that boil from the outset. You and I must find a way to get past our differences or there is no hope for the rest of the Company. Yet if we can form a true bond, then our kin will follow suit."

Smyth was surprised by the candour and remarked, "A noble sentiment, but I doubt your advisers feel the same."

Toran grimaced as he said, "Don't take Orath too personally, he loathes everybody equally."

Smyth chewed his lip as he said, "Orath is not a problem, at least he is open about it. Your Librarian however... I can feel his watchful gaze wherever I go."

Toran let out a breath and said, "The others will come around in time or a good war will unite us. Once we shed blood together we will start to move past our differences. "

Smyth found that idea a tad naive, he doubted a few battles would resolve all their troubles, but outwardly he said, "So where do we begin?"

Toran shuffled a few papers around and said, "There are some issues I require your advice upon, it has been barely three days since your arrival and I have already received a dozen grievances regarding the Reivers."

Smyth sighed deeply at the familiar problem and groaned, "Reivers are trouble personified, but they can be managed if you know how to talk to them. Let me tell you about my old comrade Ingvis…"

With that the pair got down to work and for the first time Smyth allowed himself to think that there was at least one soul in the Storm Heralds willing to make this arrangement work.


	49. Chapter 49

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 49**

Under the harsh sun the Storm Heralds waited, weapons held tightly in parade formation. They were arranged outside the largest landing ground, patiently awaiting the arrival of Roboute Guilliman. They were formed up into blocks by Company, some five hundred to each side of the path laid out for the ceremonial procession. At one end of their assembly the landing ground shimmered in the hot sun and at the other a podium had been raised, occupied by the lone figure of Chapter Master Phalros, utterly magnificent in his polished artificer armour.

Toran was standing with Third Company, feeling the hot sun tanning his exposed brow. He had been standing silently for an hour and was willing to wait however long it took. Yet as he did so he eyed his Chapter's ranks, barely shy of a thousand Brothers now. They were proudly clad in their gleaming armour, but the last week had proven how raw and uncoordinated they were, appearances aside, the Storm Heralds still had a long way to go before they were ready for battle. There were several Dreadnoughts present as well, Tonnant Flamesword, Venerable Temeraire and Bellerophon the Slayer of Despots. The rest could not be woken and Toran was sincerely relieved not to be the one who would tell them what they had missed, when they next stirred.

Yet more worryingly was Honourable Ajax. The Dreadnought was looming over the assembly, plumes of heat shimmering off his reactor core. Even for a blank-faced war machine the Contemptor looked irate and liable to explode at the slightest provocation. The Techmarines has subtly tried to deactivate his weapon systems, but Ajax had sent them scurrying with threats of violent retribution.

Resignedly Toran turned his gaze towards the new Captains: Jemiel of the First, Apodis of Fifth, Rayenk of Sixth, Raxilious of Seventh, Scico of Eighth and Daltos of Ninth. Faces and names he did not know well and wanted to become more familiar with before he trusted them to watch his back in a fight. At least Hakulo and Cyvo and Nimodes were known qualities, and their Companys had fared best in the recent simulated battles. As if summoned by the very thought his vox-bead tickled and Hakulo's voice crackled, "Toran, there's one thing you never explained. How did you convince Lord Guilliman to spare the Chapter?"

"It can wait," Toran sub-vocalised.

Yet Hakulo seemed to have left the channel open for Cyvo prodded, "Don't be coy, tell us how you did it."

Toran scowled but suddenly from behind him Novak's voice added, "Captain Toran punched him in the jaw."

There was a moment of silence then Cyvo spat, "He did not."

"No, it's true," Novak protested, "Ask Furion."

Yet Hakulo muttered, "I don't believe a word of this, you're making it up."

Cyvo sounded incredulous as he queried, "And how did he respond to this supposed punch?"

Toran confessed, "He broke every single bone in my body."

"Ha!" Hakluo cried gleefully, "That part I believe!"

Suddenly a harsh voice cut in, Chapter Master Phalros, and he growled, "Be silent, here he comes."

Toran's gaze rose as awed whispers swept through the ranks. Falling through the clear cloudless sky were a flight of bulky craft, dropping towards the Fortress-Monastery with steady deliberation. They were coming in slowly, for aircraft, a gentle descent of regal majesty. At the forefront flew multiple delta-V's of interceptor craft, escorting the drop-ships behind. Stormhawks in the colours of assorted Chapters and among them were a wing in Storm Herald blue, the Chapter honoured to join the escort.

Behind them came clouds of Thunderhawks, Overlords and a single example of the nigh-mythical Orion drop-ships of the Adeptus Custodes, a sight Toran had only ever seen once, in a stylised fresco commemorating the Siege of Terra. Yet in the centre of the formation flew a bulky Overlord Gunship with downswept wings, bearing white Ultima emblems upon its flanks. Toran watched as the interceptors peeled off and flew over the landscape towards isolated landing pads. The drop-ships however continued their run, heading right for the landing ground. They descended with absolute precision, keeping their distances with the perfection only transhumans could achieve and they settled down onto the Ferrocrete surface with great gusts of exhaust billowing out from their vectored thrusters.

Every Storm Herald stood as straighter and clasped their bolters upright as the dropship's ramps opened and hundreds of Space Marines spilled out. Unnumbered Sons, Imperial Fists, Black Templars, Raven Guard, Fire Lords, Aurora Chapter, Salamanders, Smoke Jaguars, White Scars, Howling Griffons, Praetors of Orpheus, Novamarines, Mortifactors and many more were represented. Some three hundred warriors formed into a ceremonial detail, stretching in two lines from the drop-ships to the waiting Storm Heralds.

An awed hush fell over the assembly as a squad of Custodian Guards moved to the Overlord, where they were met by the proud champions of the Victrix Guard, and together made an escort fit for an Emperor, or one of his sons. Then from the darkness of the Overlord's bay emerged Roboute Guilliman himself, in resplendent glory. The Primarch was a sight to steal the breath away, his armour dazzling with shining embellishments. His head was crowned with golden laurels and he bore the Hand of Dominion and the Sword of the Emperor with stately majesty. He towered over all and his sheer dynamism made the world around him seem drab and inconsequential.

Even from far away the gravity of his presence drew the eye like a lodestone and Toran heard Hakulo gasp, "I… I never… he's… he's…" Toran could appreciate the wonder, Guilliman radiated power and majesty, as if he was the only thespian on a stage and everything else was a mere backdrop. Yet Toran's augmetic eye told him that physically there was no difference from the previous times he had seen the Primarch, the armour was exactly the same and the bearing as stern as ever. Yet without doing anything at all Guilliman had become larger than life, a being from legend stepping into the world.

Everybody else seemed lost in wonder but in Toran's heart a treacherous thought lurked that Guilliman was doing it deliberately, knowingly asserting his authority from the moment he arrived. The ancient legends gave no indication that Guilliman boasted any psychic abilities, unlike some of his Brother Primarchs, yet right now Toran could have believed it. Or perhaps it was the other way round, something innate to the being of an Astartes, the gene-seed responding to the presence of its originator rather than anything Guilliman was doing himself. Either way the Imperial Regent commanded the attention of all from the moment he set foot upon the ground.

With stately languor Guilliman began walking towards the waiting Companies, his bodyguards following in his wake. He passed the representatives of the Chapters and as he did so a Standard Bearer would step forth from each, walking behind him with their banners held high. Soon Guilliman was leading thirty banners of Chapters sworn to the Indomitus Crusade, proud flags fluttering in the sea breeze. Utter silence reigned as Guilliman reached the first rank of Storm Heralds but there he paused. The Imperial Regent slowed his pace and looked at the lines of blue-clad Space Marines, then he turned to a humble line warrior and asked an innocuous question about a campaign badge. Even Toran's genhanced hearing could barely make out the response but he caught the tone of awed amazement coming from the Initiate. Guilliman nodded sagely and then moved a few paces on and found another soul to ask a query.

Flutters of amazement flew among the waiting ranks and Toran's hearts felt astonishment that so mighty a person as the Imperial Regent could make time for the lowest and most humble of warriors. Yet his augmetic eye caught the fact that none of the Standard Bearers had been flummoxed by the interruption, stopping smoothly and precisely. Suddenly the realisation crept over him that this had been carefully stage-managed and rehearsed, Guilliman was deliberately portraying himself as a generous and caring lord, concerned with the well-being of his followers. It was an act, but a wonderfully executed one.

Toran mused for a moment that he had seen Guilliman as a judge and as a warrior and as a sage lord but this was Guilliman the statesman, and he played the crowd to perfection. These warriors had been willing to follow him as their rightful lord and master, but Guilliman was turning this stiff ceremonial welcome into an intensely personal affair. He did not speak to every soul, that would have taken hours, but he spoke to enough to win their hearts and minds. Captains, Sergeants and line-Brothers, veterans and even the raw Scout-Novices, he showed no concern for rank or age as he moved up the line and the Space Marine's admiration for him soared to dizzying heights. Before they would have fought for him upon command, but now they would have sworn away their lives to serve him. Not one soul among them doubted his magnificence and Toran seriously wondered if he was the only one who could grasp that this was a calculated outcome.

Majestically Guilliman made his way up the ranks but eventually he hit a snag. As the Primarch approached Honourable Ajax took a single step forward and growled, "I WANT A WORD WITH YOU."

The Victrix Guard bristled but Guilliman merely raised an eyebrow and replied without offence, "Ah, yes… you are the one they all look up to."

Ajax's voice shook with anger as he spat, "YOU DARE SHOW YOUR FACE HERE, AFTER YOU TRIED TO DESTROY US?"

Gasps of shock arose from the crowds but Guilliman stilled them with a wave and replied candidly, "Yes I did that and I would do so again, were it necessary."

Ajax's voice oozed latent threat as he hissed, "YOU AREN'T EVEN SORRY."

Guilliman responded crisply, "I bear the weight of galaxy upon my shoulders and for the sake of all there is no sentence I would not contemplate, no enemy I would not wage war upon, no matter how they loudly they protest their loyalty."

Ajax snarled, "SO YOU WILL CRUSH ANYTHING THAT OPPOSES YOU?"

Guilliman replied coldly, "To save humanity, I would be willing to shove a cyclonic torpedo into the face of every corrupt despot and hypocritical tyrant that lords over this sham of an Imperium."

There was a prolonged moment of silence and then Ajax let out a grinding noise from his vox-caster. It was a harsh blare and it took a long moment for Toran to realise that Ajax was trying to laugh. The Dreadnought grated loudly for a moment and then uttered, "FINALLY, SOMEONE WHO SEES RIGHTLY! I SHOULD HAVE DONE THAT TO OUR OWN HERETICS TEN YEARS AGO."

Guilliman had the coldest smile on his lip as he said, "I am pleased to see someone around here understands the truth of these matters. Can I trust you to keep an eye upon this Chapter for me?"

Ajax snorted, "AYE MY LORD, I WILL WATCH OVER THESE CHILDREN FOR YOU."

Guilliman nodded and said, "Carry on, Ajax, carry on."

With that the Imperial Regent walked past while Ajax stepped back into line and as he did so he tapped the Astartes standing next to him on the shoulder with his assault cannon. The warrior almost fell to his knees, as the blow bowed him low, but Ajax cared not as he proclaimed, "DID YOU HEAR THAT?! HE KNOWS MY NAME! ROBOUTE GUILLIMAN KNOWS MY NAME!"

Finally the Primarch reached the Third Company and Toran drew himself upright as the Imperial Regent walked near. Yet he was disappointed when the Primarch moved straight past him without saying a word, continuing his journey towards the Chapter Master. Toran suppressed a childish ache of disappointment and kept his head high as Guilliman mounted the podium to stand alongside Phalros.

Then the Chapter Master faced their gene-father and proclaimed, "Hail Sire, on behalf of this Chapter, I greet you."

Guilliman came to halt before him and replied, "Phalros the Pure, Master of the Storm Heralds. With the authority vested in me by the Emperor of Mankind, I ask for your service and your loyalty."

Without hesitation Phalros fell to one knee and all the Captains, Initiates and Novices and Aspirants followed suit, the sound ringing like pealing bells as a thousand Space Marines knelt. Phalros lowered his head and said, "So we swear upon our own lifeblood. Your word shall be our command and we shall gladly follow you into fire, into war and into death. Were we reduced to but one Brother then that Marine would yet lay down his life for your cause. Now and evermore, we are your Leal sons and none shall doubt our allegiance."

Roboute Guilliman placed his right gauntlet upon the bowed head and said, "I accept your vow, Phalros of the Storm Heralds. Rise and be welcomed into my armies, as worthy Brothers in arms."

With that the Space Marines rose, cheering loudly and punching their fists into the air. Toran was among them, rising to his feet as a cry of joy slipped from his lips. Along with every Brother, new and old, he celebrated the Storm Herald's union with their gene-father and for a moment all the cares of the galaxy were forgotten as a new page was opened in their history.


	50. Chapter 50

**Indomitus Bellum Chapter 50**

The horizon was a bruised mass of dark clouds, billowing in immense swells as flashes of lightning tore across the sky. Peals of thunder ran ahead of it, carrying promises of woe and lamentation for all who stood before it. The last traces of the setting sun were disappearing before the violent tempest, the Emperor's Storm, bearing down on the Fortress-Monastery will unstoppable inevitability.

All over the island Serfs rushed to complete their final preparations, locking down storm shutters and securing any loose items. Hangers were sealed and living spaces closed behind thick hatches as storm drains were flushed of debris. This did not mean the Fortress-Monastery was defenceless, far from it, void shields were placed on ready alert and orbital turbolasers charged as serf operated auspexs scoured local space for threats, no enemy would find the Chapter unprepared in this time of trial. The world-girdling tempest was a fact of life on Lujan II, and everything on this planet was designed to either be proof against its fury or easily stowed in safe places.

Yet for the Space Marines preparations took on a different character. There was no thought of protecting oneself from the storm; instead they were exposing themselves to it. Armour was reverently removed and weapons blessed with sacred oils before being stowed. Then, clad only in their coarse shrifts, the Space Marines walked out onto the battlements and waited for the cyclone to come. This was the Storm Herald's ultimate test of purity and devotion, to allow the tempest to scour their spirits for any sign of imperfection.

Standing on a high rampart Captain Toran could already feel the wind blowing over him, the wet breeze plastering his face with rain. To his left were a squad of Fire Lords and to the right a squad of Novamarines. Voices had been raised against allowing outsiders to experience the Storm Herald's most sacred rite, but when the Primarch also expressed an interest in participating all protests had evaporated. They were but a single level above Chapter Master Phalros' own position, who was standing with personages of note, including Shade-Seer Imix and Jaric Phoros. Rank mattered not this day; all must face the hurricane and share the danger. Yet all were not equally sanguine about it.

Lieutenant Smyth gripped the bare rock of the raised parapet and said, "So… we're just supposed to stand here?"

Toran let a cold smirk pass his lips as he answered, "If you can."

Smyth frowned as he muttered, "Doesn't seem very challenging."

Persion chipped in, "Just you wait, this is nothing, the Emperor's Storm is beyond anything you've ever faced."

Smyth glanced at him and said, "If it's that bad then why aren't we issued safety harnesses?"

At that Orath sneered, "If you are afraid of the test then perhaps you should go cower inside."

Novak also quipped, "Shall we swaddle you in rags and carry you like a babe in arms?"

Toran was irked by their rough jibes and said, "Rest assured this is a test worthy of Transhumans, you will learn that soon enough."

Smyth scowled as he spat, "I am not afraid, but I see novices on the lower ramparts, they may not yet have the strength to endure this."

Jediah replied dismissively, "If they are weak enough to die then we are better off without them."

Smyth's jaw fell and he gasped, "You would kill your own aspirants in some arcane rite?"

But then Furion stepped in to explain, "They shall have every chance to survive, the same chance we all have, we ask no more of them than we do of ourselves. This rite is a chance to rise above our limitations and become stronger. It teaches us to live in the now, to set aside all that is impure in our souls and focus solely upon our duty."

Arvael added, "We all did this as aspirants and accepted the odds. The strong will grow stronger; the weak will be purged. Weakness cannot be tolerated."

Smyth settled down, for all Space Marines would agree on that last part, but Toran's eye was caught by a knot of serfs who were not fleeing for cover. A small gaggle of workers far below were directing a team of servitors to scan the ground with laser-measuring tools. The Captain leaned over the edge and frowned as he asked, "Why aren't those mortals seeking shelter?"

Furion replied, "They are marking the footsteps of Lord Guilliman, making a millimetre precise record of everywhere he touched the ground."

Toran's head swivelled to stare at the Chaplain and asked, "Why?"

Furion answered, "The plan is to etch his footsteps into the ground and then fill them in with molten gold. The 'Primarch's Walk' shall become another rite of passage for the aspirants, to follow his path and meditate upon the road he has laid out before us."

Toran's jaw fell and he gasped, "Please tell me you're jesting."

However Novak grinned as he added, "I heard he used the privies in the Scout-Barracks, I think they're planning to turn it into a shrine!"

Toran was almost certain that was one of Novak's jokes but he growled to one and all, "Nobody is to breathe a word of this to him… nobody."

"Very well," Memnos called from his own perch, "We won't tell him, neither will we mention the three gold studs you had fitted to your inner vambrace. One for every conversation you've had with him."

The others face's filled with amused grins but Toran's mind dwelled upon the last few days. It had been a whirlwind tour, the Lord Guilliman not wanting to linger too long. A brief inspection tour of the Fortress-Monastery, and a short meeting with Phalros, had been followed by a grand procession around the planet, visiting the few dwarf continents Lujan II possessed. They had visited the industrialised urban sprawl that was the lands of Ka Mua, where stunning pageantry had greeted them. The Space Marines had marched a hundred miles in a day, surrounded every inch of the way by towering buildings filled with screaming crowds of mortals, who threw paper flowers upon the heads of their champions and then broken down into tears of euphoria as the Primarch himself walked past.

In a century of blistering warfare Toran had never had much time for pomp and show, so this had been shocking to experience. The streets were suffocating under the weight of bunting and the noise of the crowds had been ear-splitting, to mortals that is, the brass bands completely drowned out by cheering crowds. Yet the representatives of the thirty Chapters seemed untroubled and Toran guessed they had seen such reactions before. Guilliman had led them in formal procession to the Lord Governor's Mansion, but then he had surprised everybody by unexpectedly arresting the corrupt and venal ruler, Akon Keli'i, and having him dragged away in fetters for gross embezzlement of Imperial funds.

Total shock reigned as Guilliman proceeded to summarily abolish the office of Lord Governor and replaced it with a new ruling Triumvirate, the head of the merchant-industrial guilds, a speaker for the people and an equerry of the Storm Heralds. Toran had never seen the like, but Roboute Guilliman was the Imperial Regent and his word was law, none could gainsay his decisions.

Before the dust had settled they were off again, flying over the oceans in their fleet of gunships. They took a pass over the irradiated wasteland that was Ka Lua, former home of the aristocracy and dropped wreaths of mourning for the slain during the invasion of the Dusk Prince Vorshaan. Then they headed north to the arctic lands of Ke Kolu, site of a sizeable Mechanicus Forge-Fane. Native Lujanites normally kept well clear of the polluted waters created by the tech-priests, their industrial spill-off killing any aquatic life for a thousand leagues. The Space Marines had been forced to wait outside the Forge's towering Adamantium doors as the Primarch talked to the Magi inside. Toran still had no idea what they had discussed, but when they emerged the Tech-Priests didn't look happy, actually it was hard to tell since they were mostly metal but they had definitely been eager to shoo away the procession and see the backs of them.

Finally they had visited many of the tiny islands that dotted the endless oceans, observing the humble folk in their humdrum lives. Fishermen, promethium-rig workers and ship crews, all had laid eyes upon the Primarch and Toran knew they would never forget the day Roboute Guilliman had visited them. At last the procession had returned to the Fortress-Monastery, to take the rite of the Emperor's Storm, before the Imperial Regent returned to the stars.

Toran's musing was disrupted as a massive blast of wind slammed into the battlements, carrying with them horizontal rain and an icy chill. All thoughts of past or future were swept aside as the hurricane tore over the buildings, causing a terrifying wail. The Space Marine latched onto the stone walls as best they could and ground their feet into the ferrocrete, holding on for dear life. On the coastline towering waves surged over the anti-landing-boat bollards and battered upon the sealed harbour gates. Blazing lightning fell in sheets, arcing into the grounding rods that protruded high above but the resulting thunder shook their bones with a vibration that could stop hearts stone dead.

For long minutes the storm battered the Fortress-Monastery and all the occupants could do was endure as the wind sought to rip them free and dash them apart on the hard stone walls. Nothing else mattered save the battle for survival and Toran's world shrank down to the struggle itself. Finally a tiny lull came in the battering winds and Smyth cried, "I'm starting to see what you mean!"

Novak yelled back, "This is only a warm-up, wait till it really hits!"

Yet Orath snapped, "Don't waste your breath, he won't last that long. I doubt he'll survive the next gust of wind."

"I'll show you what I can do!" Smyth snarled back.

Yet Toran wasn't listening, he had leaned forward to check that the serfs had reached shelter and as he did so spied Phalros' balcony, now occupied by the Primarch. At some point during the tempest he had emerged and now stood shoulder to shoulder with the Chapter Master. Roboute Guilliman wore his plate armour, technically a violation of the rite's prescriptions, but nobody would dare to argue the point with him. Toran had the strangest realisation that he had never seen Guilliman without his armour and the thought occurred that perhaps he couldn't remove it.

Toran strained his ears and heard Guilliman speaking calmly, as if strolling through a park on a breezy day, "On Macragge there was once a grove of trees, where I used to take time to contemplate matters in private. When I awoke after ten millennia, I was horrified to learn the grove had been encased in crystal-resin and been perfectly preserved for all time. To the naked eye the glade was as it had always been, but inside the casings the trees were dead and petrified. I had them all bulldozed and replanted, now where once was a memorial to a dead past grows healthy and living trees."

"I take it that's a metaphor for the Imperium?" Phalros yelled over the howling wind, hardly as sanguine in the face of the tempest.

Guilliman remarked, "I wondered if you could grasp such concepts, few in this benighted age seem capable of lateral thought."

Toran's eavesdropping was cut off as the wind picked up, trying to rip him from his perch. He clung on for dear life and shook rainwater from his face as the gale battered his frame. After a few seconds the wind reduced a hairsbreadth and he heard Guilliman remark serenely, "Ah, I understand this training exercise now. It teaches the contrasting roles of the Theoretical and the Practical, you must embrace the moment of action and focus exclusively on the deed itself, not the rationale."

Phalros barked through the screaming gale, "Sire… could we possibly talk about it afterwards?!"

Toran could spare no more of his attention as the full force of the storm returned, slamming into the Fortress-Monastery. Thick black clouds swept over them and visibility shrank to nothing and the world became a howling rictus of wind and rain. Nothing else mattered save survival, the act of holding on and knowing that a single slip meant certain death. All other thoughts fell away, save one, for as the purity of the moment overtook him Toran thought, "Astartes or Primaris, it no longer matters, today we find out what we are made of and prove that we are all equal before the gaze of the Emperor."

_*The Adventure Continues when the Alpha Legion returns in Falsa Verum*_

***Authors Note***

Many thanks go to Dmitry Feygor for his advice on how to write Roboute Guilliman, his own Tales of Ultramar are available for download from the Inquisitors Archives on Facebook.


	51. Chapter 51

_*Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story Diem Infamia*_

**Somewhere Somewhen**

Space was no longer what it once was. Where once there was stillness and calm now only violence and hate dwelt. The star-spackled backdrop of the vacuum had been replaced with lurid rifts of immaterial colours, within which danced nightmares that had no business existing under the harsh reality of physical laws. Yet these entities mocked any notion of order, delighting in their non-conformity to any boundaries of sanity. These beings swam in the ethereal energies pouring out of the rifts, following them from one end of the galaxy to the other, at a pace that made a farce of relativity. This wound to reality was their home and their beachhead, a gaping, festering sore in the fabric of the Materium. It was called the Cicatrix Maledictum and it threatened to swallow the galaxy whole.

Hanging just beyond the borders of the rift was a dead and blasted rock, stripped bare of all life. The deserted cities sat under the purple glare of the rift, left exactly as they had been the second the rift opened up overhead and sucked the lifeforce from every living thing on the surface. The lands were silent, save for a mournful wind and the salty seas barely stirred, untroubled by gravitational tides or the motion of living things. Even the planet's name was forgotten, reduced to nothing more than a mark in a ledger in some tiny corner of the Adeptus Administratum's labyrinthine vaults. All was quiet and still, save for one tiny mote of vigour. In the abandoned cathedral of a crumbling metropolis, there was a spark of activity, a morsel of life in the endless graveyard.

Inside the cathedral knots of cultists stood in concentric rings, chanting a nonsense litany that made their ears bleed. Their flesh was withered and gaunt, beset by mutations and parched from lack of hydration. Three days they had stood here, chanting all the while and their remaining strength was on the verge of giving out. Yet their master cared not.

Standing to one side was a bulky figure in crimson power armour that was lined with silver. Spikes adorned his plate as did the litanies of lost Colchis and his face was pale with sharpened teeth and an elaborate top-knot. With one hand he gripped the butt of a bolt-pistol but he had no other for his other arm ended just above his elbow. His name was Kasarox the Unhallowed and he was the Coryphaus of the Crooked Path warband, outcasts from the Word Bearers Traitor Legion.

Kasarox watched as the cultists performed their ritual but his attention was drifting. His eyes scoured the walls, seeing the smashed icons of the Imperial faith and the daubed runes of the Dark Pantheon smeared over the paltry decorations. Kasarox's party had arrived after this benighted world had been destroyed, taking the cathedral and reconsecrating it to Chaos. It had been pathetically easy, Kasarox would have preferred a fight, but time was not on his side and he could afford no distractions.

Kasarox's gaze returned to the cultists and he felt resentment surge in his black hearts. These lickspittle dregs had been blessed by the Dark Gods in abundance, even the least of them boasted mutations and unholy gifts. Kasarox however did not, his form was disgustingly unblessed, he bore no mutations or divine gifts, the only power he knew was that of the average Space Marine. Even his rank was an insult, Coryphaus, the battle-leader and tactical strategist of the Word Bearers. It was their duty to orchestrate the fighting, so the mighty Dark Apostles could concentrate on loftier matters, communing with the blessed hells of the Warp. For millennia Kasarox had served faithfully, filled with bitter jealousy all the while, but no longer. He had experienced a taste of true power, the touch of a Neverborn had coursed through his flesh and he could no longer content himself with such meagre rewards. He wanted more and he was going to get it, one way or another.

There was a scrape of a clawed foot behind him and he glanced aside to see another Word Bearer slouching against a pillar. This one could not have been more different, his form was bulky and twisted and his armour was rent by protruding bones. His face boasted hooked chin claws and his brow bore curving horns. His hands were long talons and his feet splayed with hooked claws, while his back sprouted shadowy wings. He was Raruma the Mocker and he was blessed to host a Neverborn in his flesh, a fact Kasarox both admired and resented.

Raruma sniffed in a bored manner and sighed, "Aren't they done yet?"

Kasarox lip curled as he growled, "We finish when we finish."

Raruma didn't take the hint and said, "We don't have all century you know."

Kasarox sneered back, "A fact I am keenly aware of, Mocker."

Raruma glanced over and remarked, "You don't look in a rush, Unhallowed, perhaps you like this place so much you want to reside here forever."

At that Kasarox sighed wearily, "Why haven't I killed you yet?"

"You'd miss me too much," Raruma quipped, "Admit it, you'd get bored without me."

"If you don't shut up I might risk it anyway," Kasarox growled.

Raruma seemed amused by that and asked, "Heard anything from our Brethren?"

"No," Kasarox replied, "They are busy keeping Abulaz distracted."

It was true, the Dark Apostle of the Crooked Path had no idea they were here, he thought they were leading a raid two systems away. If he's known what they were up to he'd have killed them instantly. Yet Kasarox no longer cared, for millennium he'd bowed and growled to that incompetent fool, bewitched by his elaborate glamour. Yet he had seen the truth when Abulaz had bungled a summoning, the idiot's botched rituals endangering all around. Kasarox had finally realised he needed to kill the inept Dark Apostle, yet how to do that, for all his self-importance Abulaz hadn't survived this long without being extremely cunning.

Kasarox sighed wearily and said, "If the ritual hasn't succeeded in another day we must depart, Abulaz can't be allowed to suspect us."

Raruma said softly, "Trust in the others, they won't fail."

"Trust?!" Kasarox spat insulted, "Is that more mockery?"

Raruma grinned around his fangs and replied, "I misspoke, I meant trust that they hate Abulaz more than they hate you. Our comrades despise him; they'd infinitely prefer you running things to him."

"Not all," Kasarox hissed angrily.

"Enough of them," Raruma stated, "You've been in the thick of every fight we've ever had. You've shared every danger and personally saved every Brother's life at least twice. What has Abulaz done save cower at the back and turn up to take all the credit?"

Kasarox exhaled slowly and uttered, "Don't try to weasel into my good graces, Mocker, you think to ride my coattails to power."

"I do like you but I'm not stupid," Raruma retorted, "Only an idiot fights without the prospect of reward."

Kasarox let out a chuckle and said, "It's a good job you amuse me or I'd have torn off your head for such blasphemy."

"It's what I do," Raruma replied with a grin.

Kasarox was about to reply but then the cultists suddenly began to quiver. It began as a tremble in their limbs, which quickly became a palsy and then violent convulsions. They fell to the ground as spams wracked them and paroxysms of agony caused them to thrash and wail as something unspeakable overtook them. They tore at their own flesh and screamed in pain as their bones broke and they cracked their skulls open upon the cold floor.

Kasarox looked on in eagerness as the long-awaited outcome of the ritual came to fruition and he held his breath in anticipation of what was to come. Inside an elaborate circle of runes a flame was emerging, a red column of light that billowed and grew second by second. The fire had no source or ignition point, it simply was and it swayed like a living thing, trying to escape confinement. Yet the summoning circle held it still, preventing it from moving. The flame surged angrily but was bound and shackled and a voice issued from nowhere crying, "Who dares summon me?!"

In response Kasarox moved forward, stepping over contorted cultists as he called, "I do!"

The flame blazed brighter and the voice echoed, "You again!"

Kasarox stopped outside the circle and replied, "In the name of the Dark Pantheon I greet you, Red Angel of Khorne."

Raruma stopped beside him and touched a clawed hand to his forehead as he said mockingly, "Morning."

The Red Angel, a Daemon from the Sixth Host of the Blood God, formed its flames into the semblance of a face with eyes made of black voids as it growled, "Didn't you learn your lesson the last time?!"

"Actually, I did," Kasarox retorted.

The Red Angel spat, "I will kill you for this."

"Why be so hostile when we can talk like two rational…" Kasarox replied smoothly but then he chuckled, "Ha… I couldn't keep a straight face saying that. You are bound and only my will can free you."

"You dare mock me!" the Red Angel howled.

"He learned from the best," Raruma quipped.

The Neverborn hissed angrily, "Your insults mount, I was going to kill you anyway but for this your deaths shall last an eternity!"

"You sound aggrieved," Kasarox said, "But it wasn't we who first imprisoned you, it wasn't us who tried to steal your power without recompence. That was Abulaz, he broke every prescription of the compact between mortals and the gods. He is the one who deserves your wrath."

"You cannot manipulate me!" the Red Angel roared, "Nothing can contain the power of Khorne!"

Kasarox inspected the back of his lone hand and said, "Oh… it seems I was mistaken. You should kill us, go on then… we're waiting."

From the circle came only sullen silence as the Neverborn fell quiet. Kasarox's face split with a wide grin and he luxuriated in the feeling of being proven right as he explained, "You can't, can you? I studied you after our last encounter and I learned some interesting things. You are of the highest order of Neverborn and such mighty potentates are bound by the terms of your creation. The Dark Gods are wary of letting their most powerful servants roam too freely and so set restrictions upon you. A being of your rank cannot simply manifest at will, once banished you cannot return to the Materium for six hundred and sixty-six years. You can't touch us."

Sullenly the Red Angel hissed, "What do you want?"

Kasarox was enjoying the sensation of power immensely and said, "We want to make a bargain, we want the power to make our will a reality."

"Why should I agree?" the Red Angel uttered.

Kasarox replied smoothly, "Because we offer you revenge on your tormentor. You can't claim vengeance for another six centuries, plenty of time for Abulaz to prepare against your coming. But we are not so restricted, give us the power and we shall inflict such suffering upon him as to satisfy even you."

"Have these cultists as well," Raruma added, "A little morsel to sweeten the deal."

There was a prolonged moment of silence and then the flames flared brightly and condensed into a hard knot. From their depths dropped a red crystal, with jagged edges and glittering with inner fires. It smacked down with a thump and glowed like a lump of coal straight from a fire.

"What's this?" Kasarox asked suspiciously.

"Raw power, figure the rest out for yourselves," the Red Angel spat, "I have fulfilled my part of the bargain, now release me, Khorne grows bored with this conversation."

Kasarox nodded but decided not to touch the jewel himself, gifts from the Dark Pantheon were never what they seemed. But out loud he said, "One last proviso to our bargain, bless me, I want a new arm."

The Red Angel let out a snarl of frustration but then Kasarox felt a sharp, stabbing pain as black bones erupted from the truncated end of his arm. In moments it grew into a skeletal limb, tipped with black claws that constantly wept blood, while muscles and red skin began to grow around them. The pain was excruciating but Kasarox laughed as the power of Khorne blessed him at last. In seconds his arm had swollen with corded muscle and he lifted his clawed hand over his head and felt power coursing through his veins.

Fresh blood dripped off his new talons and Kasarox opened his mouth to let them fall onto his tongue. The rich taste of iron filled his senses as triumphant laughter ripped from his throat and he filled the cathedral with the promise of the horrors he would unleash upon the galaxy.


End file.
